Ulrich  Middeldorf 


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MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 

OF 

PERSONS  AND  PLACES 


% 


LONDON:  EDWARD  ARNOLD  StC? 


MEMORIES  & NOTES 

OF 

PERSONS  & PLACES 

1852-1912 


SIR  SIDNEY  COLVIN 


SECOND  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
1922 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CHAP. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Dedicatory  Letter  . 

• • 

• 

• 

7 

I 

An  East-Suffolk  Boyhood  and 

some  Poets 

13 

II 

John  Buskin 

• • 

• 

38 

III 

Edward  Burne-Jones 

• • 

• 

48 

IV 

Dante  Gabriel  Bossetti 

• • 

• 

60 

V 

Bobert  Browning 

* 

• 

76 

VI 

The  Priory  and  George  Eliot 

• • 

• 

90 

VII 

Little  Holland  House  and  G. 

F.  Watts 

93 

VIII 

Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  . 

• • 

98 

IX 

Fleeming  and  Anne  Jenkin 

• • 

153 

X 

Box  Hill  and  George  Meredith 

162 

XI 

William  Ewart  Gladstone 

• • 

189 

XII 

The  British  Museum  and  Sir  Charles  Newton 

201 

XIII 

On  some  Aspects  of  Athens 

• • 

• 

224 

XIV 

Edward  John  Trelawny  . 

• • 

• 

240 

XV 

Victor  Hugo 

• • 

• 

253 

XVI 

Leon  Gambetta  . 

• • 

• 

274 

XVII 

At  the  Land’s  End  of  France 
Index  

9 « 

• 

• 

286 

315 

Portrait  of  the  Author 

9 • 

Frontispiece 

5 


To 

MY  WIFE 


DEAR,  I have  dedicated  one  book  to  you  already, 
and  have  been  asking  myself  to  whom  I should  dedi- 
cate this,  which  considering  my  age  and  infirmities 
is  as  good  as  bound  to  be  my  last.  I thought  at 
first  of  offering  it  to  one  or  other  of  those  younger 
friends  whose  attachment  is  the  pride  and  comfort 
of  our  declining  years.  But  on  reflection  it  came 
home  to  me  that  a dedication  to  any  one  of  these 
would  in  truth  only  be  at  one  remove  a dedication 
to  you.  For  it  is  you  who  have,  if  not  in  the  first 
instance  brought  me  all  their  friendships,  as  long  ago 
you  brought  me  that  of  Stevenson,  at  any  rate  attached 
them  to  the  pair  of  us  in  far  firmer  bonds  than  I could 
ever  have  forged  by  myself  alone.  And  so  I conclude 
that  the  simplest  way  is  to  repeat  my  former  offering 
and  lay  this  book  also,  for  what  it  may  be  worth, 
directly  at  your  feet.  But  I shall  do  so  with  a differ- 
ence, inasmuch  as,  following  the  old  practice  of  the 
Epistle  Dedicatory,  I shall  proceed  to  remind  you, 
and  in  so  doing  inform  the  reader,  how  the  volume  has 
come  to  be  what  it  is. 

Well,  then,  you  know  how  from  very  early  days  I 

7 


8 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


began  to  try  my  prentice  hand  at  various  forms  of 
critical  writing — for  of  creative  I knew  myself  incap- 
able— in  order  to  define  and  if  it  might  be  to  com- 
municate the  pleasures  which  were  to  me  the  salt  of 
life.  You  know  also  how  circumstances  drew  me  before 
long  to  the  special  vocation  of  art  critic — I hate  the 
label,  but  it  cannot  be  shirked — and  thence  to  that 
of  Slade  Professor  at  Cambridge,  and  thence  to  that 
of  practical  expert  and  museum  keeper.  These  have 
been  my  responsible  occupations  through  some  forty 
years  of  my  life,  and  most  of  such  literary  work  as 
I have  found  time  for  has  been  in  connection  with  them. 
But  absorbing  as  such  official  duties  may  have  been, 
enjoyable  as  I may  have  found  them,  they  were  not 
such  as  to  deaden  what  other  interests  or  faculties 
may  have  been  born  or  early  awakened  in  me.  And 
throughout  my  museum  years,  whether  at  Cambridge 
or  in  London,  I always  nursed  the  hope  of  one  day 
getting  free  to  work  no  longer  upon  the  productions, 
however  treasurable  and  fascinating,  of  man’s  hands, 
but  upon  objects  which  had  always  interested  me  even 
more  deeply  still,  namely  poetry  and  the  scenes  of 
nature  and  the  characters  of  men  and  women. 

Accordingly  soon  after  my  retirement  I set  to  work, 
as  you  know,  upon  a task  which  seemed  urgently  to 
call  for  the  doing,  namely  a critical  life  of  the  poet 
Keats  in  accordance  with  the  present  state  of  our 
knowledge.  At  the  same  time,  being  over-sanguine 
as  to  my  own  working  powers,  I entered  into  an 
agreement  to  prepare  a book  in  several  volumes 
which  should  in  the  main  be  one  of  personal  recollec- 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


9 


tions.  But  of  recollections  with  a difference : — it 
was  to  be  a record  of  the  most  lively  impressions  I 
could  definitely  recall  as  having  been  made  upon 
me  since  boyhood  not  only  by  persons  but  by  scenes 
and  places,  and  not  only  by  these  but  by  events  and 
movements,  more  especially  in  literature  and  art ; 
and  was  to  include  in  some  cases  a comparison  of  those 
impressions  of  the  moment  with  such  revised  opinions 
and  judgments  as  I might  entertain  to-day. 

But  retirement  from  the  public  service,  in  bringing 
me  leisure,  did  not  bring  me  strength,  and  the  wear- 
and-tear  of  spirit  we  all  underwent  during  the  war 
came  to  add  its  effects  to  the  normal  sapping  power 
of  age.  Hence  it  came  about  that  the  Keats  book 
took  a good  deal  longer  to  prepare  than  I had  calcu- 
lated. And  it  soon  became  clear  that  I should  not  be 
able  to  carry  out  my  other  scheme  on  anything  like  the 
scale  first  proposed.  All  I could  hope  to  do  was  to 
throw  together  a certain  number,  enough  between 
them  to  fill  one  volume,  both  of  the  personal  memories 
most  vividly  present  to  my  mind  and  of  impressions 
of  the  external  scenes  which  had  most  interested  me. 
The  volume  so  designed  is  now  in  your  hands.  The 
persons,  as  most  readers  would,  I suppose,  desire,  fill 
far  the  larger  number  of  pages.  The  space  they  sever- 
ally occupy  depends,  let  it  be  clearly  understood,  not 
at  all  on  their  relative  human  or  historical  importance 
but  solely  on  the  much  or  little  that  I happen  to  re- 
member of  them.  The  places  described  are  in  a few 
instances  inseparably  connected  with  them,  but  in 
a few  others  are  independent. 


10 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


The  figures  I have  tried  to  call  up  are  for  the  most 
part  those  of  famous  men  with  whom  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  come  early  in  life  into  contact,  close  or  casual 
as  the  case  might  be.  It  was  never  my  habit  to 
keep  diaries  or  make  notes  of  conversations,  so  that 
the  matters  I have  set  down  are  strictly  and  solely 
such  as  have  chanced  to  stick  in  my  memory ; the 
single  exception  being  in  the  case  of  Shelley’s  friend 
Trelawny,  of  my  one  and  only  talk  with  whom  I did, 
as  it  happens,  make  notes  the  evening  after  it  had 
occurred.  The  impressions  of  places,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  in  two  or  three  instances  (indicated  in  the  text 
by  dates)  recorded  promptly  after  they  were  received. 

While  this  volume  was  planning,  I had  meant  that 
among  its  contents  there  should  be  a full  chapter 
on  Cambridge.  I suppose  no  son  of  Cambridge  has 
cause  to  look  on  his  university  with  more  grateful 
affection  than  I.  Going  up  as  a home-taught  freshman 
wdth  the  vaguest  idea  how  I might  stand  in  comparison 
with  school-trained  lads  of  my  age,  I had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  doing  nearly  as  well  as  any  of  them  in  the  classical 
studies  which  were  my  choice,  and  of  winning  first  a 
scholarship  and  then  a fellowship  at  Trinity.  Then, 
after  a few  years  of  work  as  journalist  in  London, 
promiscuous  critical  work  in  which  the  special  study  of 
art  and  the  history  of  art  bore  a chief  place,  I was 
offered  the  opportunity  first  of  going  back  to  the  uni- 
versity as  Slade  Professor,  and  before  long  of  coupling 
with  that  pleasant  office  the  other,  then  newly  created, 
of  director  of  the  Fitzwilliam  Museum.  So  that 
Cambridge  has  been  in  the  fullest  sense  the  alma 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


11 


mater  or  kind  nursing  mother  to  whom  I owed  alike 
training  and  recognition  and  opportunity.  How  much 
of  sentiment,  of  haunting  love  and  affection,  is  mingled 
with  the  reasoned  gratitude  and  loyalty  I owe  her  is  a 
question  which  I often  ask  myself  and  do  not  find  it 
very  easy  to  answer.  It  is  one  of  the  great  virtues  of 
Cambridge  that  to  false  sentiment  she  is  an  enemy, 
and  that  any  true  partaker  of  her  spirit  becomes 
impatient  of  professions,  even  by  himself  to  himself, 
that  have  in  them  any  taint  of  unreality  or  claptrap. 

At  any  rate,  of  the  Cambridge  familiar  to  me 
both  as  an  undergraduate  and  as  a don  I had  meant 
for  the  purposes  of  this  book  to  try  and  call  up 
what  living  memories  I could.  But  for  one  thing 
I discovered  that  some  quite  indelible  impressions 
of  particular  corners  and  features  and  aspects  of  the 
place,  which  I had  thought  might  be  almost  private 
to  myself,  had  been  provokingly  forestalled  more  than 
half  a century  ago  by  Edward  FitzGerald  (of  whom 
I have  to  make  further  mention  later  on)  in  that  little 
masterpiece  Euphranor.  For  another  thing,  dipping 
into  the  volume  in  which  everything  that  has  been  or 
could  be  said  or  felt  about  Cambridge,  in  praise  or  dis- 
praise or  description  or  recollection  in  every  mood  or 
manner  for  the  last  three  centuries  and  more,  was 
collected  with  such  ingenious  industry  a few  years  ago 
by  Mr.  Sydney  Waterlow,  I found  that  I had  not  so 
much  refreshed  my  mind  on  the  subject, which  was  what 
I had  hoped,  as  clogged  and  confused  it.  For  a last 
thing,  I had  the  delight  of  reading  the  beautiful  pages  in 
which  Cambridge  in  general,  with  Trinity  in  particular, 


12 


DEDICATORY  LETTER 


has  lately  been  praised  by  one  of  the  most  learned 
and  famous  of  her  living  sons,  my  friend  Sir  James 
Frazer.  But  in  that  delight  I found  also  an  effectual 
warning  against  rivalry.  And  so  it  came  about  that 
Cambridge  has  slipped  out  of  my  scheme. 

With  Cambridge  have  gone  certain  personalities  that  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  keep  in,  such  as  those  two 
successive  masters  and  stately  figure-heads  of  my  own 
college  in  my  early  days,  Whewell  and  Thompson ; 
such  as  the  famous  classical  coach  Shilleto,  whom  I 
can  still  see  in  my  mind’s  eye,  at  his  table  littered  with 
snuff-boxes  and  bandana  handkerchiefs, — still  hear 
while  he  pounds  into  my  sense  the  stiffest  meanings  of 
Thucydides  ; or  such  again  as  J.  W.  Clark,  equally  keen 
and  accomplished  in  the  pursuits  of  natural  history 
and  architectural  history  and  amateur  stage-craft ; or 
those  two  fine  contrasted  types  of  classical  scholar 
and  public  orator,  W.  G.  Clark,  the  most  frankly  urbane 
and  straightforwardly  courteous  of  men,  and  Jebb, 
probably  the  most  faultless  Grecian  of  them  all,  whom 
you  yourself  remember  well,  and  whose  tensely 
strung  nature  and  ever-tingling  nerves  did  not  prevent 
him  from  being  a successful  man  of  the  world  and  fine 
representative  of  his  university  in  Parliament — 
But  here  I am,  getting  thoughts  of  Cambridge  and 
Cambridge  friends  in  after  all  by  a side  door,  and 
prolonging  my  dedication  beyond  your  or  the  reader’s 
patience.  So  no  more, — except  one  word  of  warm 
thanks  to  Sir  Philip  Burne-Jones  and  such  other  friends 
as  have  given  me  leave  to  print  letters  of  which  they 
hold  the  copyright. 


CHAPTER  I 

AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS 

The  older  one  grows — I believe  the  observation  is 
trite,  and  in  my  case  it  is  certainly  true — the  more 
vividly  does  the  mind  become  haunted  by  its  earliest 
experiences,  by  memories  of  what  one  suffered  and 
enjoyed  and  imagined  and  did  or  longed  to  do  as  a 
child  and  boy.  My  mother  had  a horror  of  schools  for 
her  sons,  partly  founded,  I think,  for  she  was  a good 
deal  of  a reader,  on  the  notions  she  had  gathered  from 
Cowper’s  Tirocinium.  My  dear  lovable  compliant 
father  tenderly  humoured  her  in  all  things  ; and  so 
the  three  of  us,  of  whom  I was  by  several  years  the 
youngest,  were  brought  up  under  tutors  at  home. 
By  all  that  I could  ever  learn,  there  was  nothing  much 
likeable  or  promising  about  me  whether  as  boy  or 
hobbledehoy ; certainly  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the 
girl-cousins  (we  had  no  sisters)  who  tried  with  little 
success  to  teach  me  dancing  and  generally  put  a polish 
on  me.  But  at  least  I was  dead  keen  always  on  what- 
ever I was  about,  although  extremely  shy  and  secret 
in  regard  to  the  things  I most  cared  for.  The  home 
was  a country-house  three  miles  from  Woodbridge  in 
East  Suffolk,  with  five  hundred  acres  of  land  and  more 
of  shooting  attached.  My  father  loved  the  place. 

13 


14 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Most  of  his  days  were  spent  in  the  conduct  of  his 
business  as  partner  in  a leading  London  firm  of  East 
India  merchants,  but  in  the  intervals  he  could  spare 
for  home  his  chief  refreshment  was  to  stroll  in  his  gar- 
dens or  over  his  acres,  or  ride  on  his  big  bay  gelding, 
Prince,  about  the  country  lanes  or  in  and  out  of 
Woodbridge  on  his  duties  as  a magistrate. 

Either  as  merchants  or  civil  servants  my  people 
on  both  sides  of  the  house  had  been  connected  with 
India  for  several  generations.  My  mother’s  father, 
William  Butterworth  Bayley,  whom  I remember  as  a 
commanding  and  withal  humorous  grand  gentleman 
of  the  old  school,  wearing  a high  black  stock  and 
swallow-tail  coat,  had  been  acting  governor-general 
in  the  interval  between  Lord  Amherst  and  Lord  William 
Bentinck,  and  for  many  years  after  his  return  was 
chairman  of  the  board  of  directors  of  the  old  East 
India  Company.  My  father’s  next  younger  brother, 
John,  was  in  my  boyish  days  lieutenant-governor  of 
the  North-West  provinces.  When  the  mutiny  came 
and  threatened  ruin  to  our  raj  and  all  connected  with 
it,  I well  remember  how  my  father’s  home  and  country 
interests  were  the  sole  things  which  enabled  the  dear 
man  at  moments  to  forget  his  cares — “ my  most  cruel 
cares,”  as  I can  still  after  these  sixty  and  odd  years 
hear  his  agonized  voice  one  day  calling  them.  Cruel 
indeed  they  were,  including  besides  the  prospect  of 
public  calamity  and  private  ruin  the  intensest  personal 
anxieties  for  beloved  kinsfolk  exposed  to  the  horrors 
of  the  time.  Sometimes  the  strain  would  end  in 
relief,  as  in  the  case  of  my  cousin  James  Colvin,  cooped 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  15 


up  almost  without  stores  in  a hurriedly  half-fortified 
bungalow  at  Arrah,  with  seven  or  eight  English  and 
fifty-odd  faithful  Sikhs,  by  a whole  horde  of  Sepoy 
mutineers  well  armed  and  provided.  “ There  is  much 
in  common,”  writes  Sir  George  Trevelyan,  4 4 between 
Leonidas  dressing  his  hair  before  he  went  forth  to 
his  last  fight  and  young  Colvin  laughing  over  his  rice 
and  salt  while  the  bullets  spattered  on  the  wall  like 
hail.”  Relief  came  to  this  small  garrison  almost  at 
the  last  gasp ; but  more  often  the  issue  was  tragic. 
A brilliant  young  sister  of  my  mother’s,  being  with 
child  at  the  time,  was  forced  to  ride  for  her  life  the  fifty 
miles  from  Shahjehanpore  to  Bareilly,  and  never  got 
over  it.  Most  harrowing  of  all,  my  aforesaid  uncle 
John  Colvin  in  his  seat  of  government  at  Agra  had 
to  bear  more  than  almost  any  other  among  the  great 
civil  servants  of  the  stress  and  burden  of  the  time, 
and  died  of  his  task  before  the  final  issue  was  made 
sure.*  He  and  my  father  had  been  brought  up  at 
St.  Andrew’s  together  and  were  devotedly  attached ; 
John  was  the  younger  but  much  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  and  again  I can  hear  my  father  calling  to  mind 
aloud  in  his  grief  how  if  any  other  youngster  was  bad 
to  him  44  John  would  always  knock  him  down — always 
knock  him  down.” 

* See  J.  W.  Kaye,  A History  of  the  Sepoy  War  in  India , vol.  iii, 
p.  416,  “ John  Russell  Colvin  died  on  September  9,  1857,  and 
History  rejoices  to  accord  him  a place  in  the  front  rank  of  those 
who  died  for  their  country  during  that  tremendous  epoch,  more 
painfully  and  not  less  gloriously  than  those  who  died  on  the  battle- 
field.” Has  life  has  been  written  by  his  son,  the  late  Sir  Auckland 
Colvin. 


16 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


My  father’s  love  of  our  country  home  was  not  shared 
by  my  mother.  She  had  imbibed  from  the  writings 
of  Ruskin,  whom  she  knew  and  idolized,  an  idea  that 
hill  or  mountain  majesty  was  a necessary  feature  of 
landscape  beauty,  and  a consequent  contempt  for 
such  quiet  lowland  scenery  as  that  about  our  home. 
To  make  up  for  what  she  held  its  poverty  she  lavished 
care  and  money  on  the  beautifying  of  the  grounds 
and  gardens,  matters  which  appealed  also  to  my 
father,  so  that  for  their  relatively  small  scale  they 
came  to  be  among  the  most  admired  in  that  country- 
side. She  insisted  also  on  a three  or  four  months’ 
annual  change  for  the  whole  household,  generally 
to  some  hired  house  in  the  outskirts  of  London,  occa- 
sionally to  Devonshire.  I do  not  think  either  of  my 
parents  at  all  realized,  readers  though  they  were,  the 
literary  interests  and  associations  which  attached  to 
our  neighbouring  country  and  coast.  Certainly  I was 
in  youth  never  made  to  realize  them.  To  my  mother 
I cannot  be  grateful  enough  for  one  thing : she  set 
me  reading  Rob  Roy  aloud  to  her  when  I was  eight 
years  old  ; the  other  Waverleys  followed  ; and  subse- 
quent years  have  only  deepened  and  confirmed  my 
delight  in  the  imaginary  world  of  which  I was  thus 
early  made  free.  It  used  to  be  a foolish  habit  among 
superfine  and  ultra-modern  critics,  during  part  of 
my  life,  to  pooh-pooh  Walter  Scott  as  no  artist,  and 
admiration  of  him  as  an  obsolete  fashion.  It  is  a joy 
in  my  old  age  to  see  him  coming,  among  the  wiser 
even  of  the  youngest,  to  be  fully  acknowledged  for 
what  he  was,  that  is  easily  the  second  greatest  creator 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  17 


in  our  language  since  Shakespeare,  and  for  all  his 
careless  ways  and  long-winded  openings  an  instinctive 
artist  in  crucial  scenes  and  moments  unsurpassed.* 

Going  back  upon  my  own  boyish  cares  and  pre- 
occupations, I recall  in  them  an  odd  mixture  of  the 
civilized  and  the  barbarous.  To  the  passion  for  Scott 
there  presently,  before  I was  fifteen,  succeeded  a 
passion  for  Spenser.  Entirely  for  myself  and  without 
direction,  I had  discovered  the  Faery  Queene  in  my 
father’s  library,  and  insatiably  devoured  and  set  about 
doing  my  best  to  imitate  it.  Not  for  the  world  would 
I have  let  any  one  into  the  secret  of  my  absurd  attempts 
and  ambitions,  but  on  summer  mornings  not  long  after 
dawn  must  needs  clamber  down  from  my  bedroom 
window,  and  go  off  to  the  stable-shed  beyond  the 
home  paddocks,  where  a beloved  little  Arab  mare  was 
housed,  the  gift  to  me  of  an  old  East-Indian  general 
my  godfather,  and  in  her  company  alone,  nursing  her 
muzzle  the  while,  sit  and  spin  out  of  my  head  the 
stanzas  of  my  poem.  The  theme,  if  I remember 
aright,  was  one  of  mythical  ancient  British  history 
taken  from  Spenser  himself.  But  other  and  for  aught 
I can  remember  alternate  mornings  were  spent  not 
less  eagerly  in  visiting,  long  before  the  dew  was  off 
the  grass,  the  night-lines  I had  laid  the  evening  before 
in  the  pools  of  one  or  the  other  of  our  two  near  brooks 
to  catch  the  big  silver-bellied  eels : lines  barbarously 
baited,  for  the  prey  would  take  no  other  lure,  with  the 

* There  is  a masterly  chapter  “ On  the  prose  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  ” in  the  Collected  Essays  of  the  late,  too  early  lost,  Professor 
Verrall  of  Cambridge  (Cambridge  University  Press,  1903). 


18 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


unfledged  young  of  hedgerow  birds  stolen  from  the 
nest.  A certain  bandy-legged  stable-help,  I remember, 
was  my  confidant  and  instigator  in  these  and  divers 
baser  kinds  of  sport,  among  them  rat-hunting  with  a 
thorough-bred  little  Dandie  Dinmont  terrier  bitch  who 
shared  her  affections  equally  between  him  and  me. 
In  other  and  more  avowable  pastimes,  I suppose  a little 
later,  I was  equally  keen,  as  in  captaining  a village 
team  of  cricketers,  or  tramping  the  turnips  after  part- 
ridges, or  standing  waiting  for  rocketing  pheasants 
at  the  spinney  corners,  or  riding  with  the  harriers 
kept  by  a neighbouring  captain  oi  militia,  who,  fine 
sportsman  as  he  was  and  looked  on  his  gallant  roan 
Silverlocks,  had  a somewhat  ungrateful  task  in  what 
was  essentially  not  a hunting  but  a shooting  country. 
A clumsy  horseman  and  an  indifferent  shot,  nothing 
could  exceed  the  zest  with  which  I pursued  these 
commonplace  country  sports,  unless  it  were  that  with 
which  in  the  same  years  (say  from  twelve  to  seventeen) 
I used  to  devour  my  Scott  and  Shakespeare  and 
Faery  Queene  and  Modern  Painters  and  Stones  of 
Venice  (for  from  my  mother  I had  by  this  time  fully 
caught  the  Ruskin  enthusiasm),  and  learn  long  screeds 
of  them,  both  verse  and  prose,  by  heart.  These 
relatively  high-flown  literary  tastes  did  not  at  all 
debar  me  from  delighting  in  Marryat  and  Mayne  Reid 
and  Fenimore  Cooper  and  planning  for  myself  under 
their  inspiration  futures  of  the  wildest  adventure. 

In  the  same  years  I was  getting  some  formal  educa- 
tion under  an  elderly  tutor,  who  neither  by  years  nor 
disposition  was  any  sort  of  friend  or  companion. 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  19 


But  he  must  have  been  as  capable  as  he  was  remark- 
able for  his  dyed  whiskers  and  corpulent  figure  and 
choleric  temper ; seeing  that  when  the  time  came  for 
going  to  Cambridge  I found  to  my  surprise  that  I was 
as  well  on  almost  in  the  classics  as  picked  lads  from 
the  public  schools,  and  in  modern  languages  much 
better. 

Well,  from  this  queerly  brought-up  boyhood  I retain, 
as  I began  by  saying,  impressions  of  nature  and  of 
natural  beauty  more  intense  and  abiding  than  any 
that  have  been  stamped  upon  me  since.  Not  from 
the  holiday  sojourns  or  excursions  during  which  I was 
especially  on  the  look-out  for  such  impressions,  as 
in  visits  to  family  friends  among  the  Galloway  moors 
or  on  the  slopes  of  the  Wicklow  mountains,  nor  even 
from  carriage  tours  taken  with  my  father  over  the 
then  untunnelled  Simplon  Pass  or  the  length  of  the 
French  and  Italian  Riviera  from  Nice  to  Genoa, — it 
is  not  from  these,  anticipate  and  enjoy  them  as  intensely 
as  I might,  that  the  sense  of  natural  beauty  sank  into 
my  soul,  but  from  the  unpretentious  scenery  of  home, 
the  familiar  and  daily  haunts  of  my  childhood  and 
boyhood.  Our  immediate  countryside  was  not  abso- 
lutely level  like  some  parts  adjacent,  but  broken  into 
gentle  undulations  of  some  eighty  to  a hundred  feet, 
with  views  of  moderate  extent  from  the  crown  of 
each  rise  (one  rise  being  actually  dignified  with  the  name 
of  Beacon  Hill),  and  in  each  of  the  hollows  a brook 
winding  its  way  through  water-meadows  towards  the 
near  estuary  of  the  Deben.  A local  poet,  Bernard 
Barton,  to  whom  I shall  presently  return,  describes 


20 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


faithfully  enough  the  course  of  one  of  these  brooks 
which  he  best  knew : — 

It  flows  through  flowery  meads, 

Gladdening  the  herds  that  on  its  margin  browse  ; 

Its  quiet  bounty  feeds 

The  alders  that  o’ershade  it  with  their  boughs. 

Gently  it  murmurs  by 

The  village  churchyard,  with  a plaintive  tone 

Of  dirge-like  melody, 

For  worth  and  beauty  modest  as  its  own. 

More  gaily  now  it  sweeps 
By  the  small  school-house,  in  the  sunshine  bright, 

And  o’er  the  pebbles  leaps, 

Like  happy  hearts  by  holiday  made  light. 

Looking  back,  I find  it  hard  to  discriminate  which  of 
my  delights  remembered  from  those  days  were  due 
to  pure  pleasure  of  the  visual  faculties,  and  which, 
or  how  much  of  each,  to  an  admixture  of  other  elements, 
sensuous  imaginative  or  active.  Among  ocular  im- 
pressions pure  and  simple,  some  that  I retain  the  most 
vividly  are  of  hawthorn  trees  in  flush  and  snowy  guel- 
der-rose balls  and  laburnum-lamps  magically  golden  ; 
of  the  miraculous  spray  and  sparkle  of  colour  and  fresh- 
ness in  a certain  wood,  the  floor  all  carpeted  with  wild 
hyacinth  and  primrose,  wood-sorrel  and  wood  anemone, 
the  new-budded  twigs  all  sparkling  with  points  of 
yellow  or  pale-green  light ; of  the  swaying  of  alders 
and  feathery  birch-boughs  all  day  long  in  summer 
air,  and  the  ruffling  of  the  seas  of  sorrel-reddened 
meadow-grass  beneath  them.  Of  the  joy  of  poring 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  21 


hour  after  hour  over  the  half-translucent  amber 
depths  and  flickering  green  reflections  of  the  brook, 
where  its  pools  lay  shaded  under  sweeping  chestnut 
boughs.  Of  crossing  a stile  at  evening  into  a certain 
favourite  high  field  open  to  the  north  and  west,  whence 
the  spirit  could  go  voyaging  among  the  encrimsoned 
archipelagoes  of  the  sunset  sky,  while  dusk  and  mist 
were  dimming  the  valley  at  my  feet.  Of  the  enchant- 
ment of  winter  frosts,  with  icicles  fringeing  the  eaves, 
and  every  bough  and  twig  of  the  naked  garden  trees 
glittering  transfigured  in  the  tingling  air.  Or  again 
of  Sunday  afternoons  at  church  in  summer,  where 
through  the  open  side-door  facing  our  seats  the  familiar 
landscape  of  cottages  and  meadows  and  wooded  slopes 
lay  coursed  over  by  the  shadows  of  travelling  clouds, 
while  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  and  crooning  of  the  stock- 
doves floated  in  from  the  tree-tops  to  temper  the  discord 
of  the  rustic  psalmody  led  by  our  humpbacked  village 
cobbler.  Or  of  poring  caressingly  on  the  deep-folded 
splendour  and  opulent  globed  softness  of  the  June 
roses,  with  their  colours  ranging  from  the  tenderest 
blushing  or  sallow  flesh-tint  to  reds  that  deepened 
almost  into  black.  Or  of  the  delicious  half-transparency 
of  the  yellow  and  red  raspberries  with  the  morning 
dew  on  them,  and  the  size  and  succulence  of  the  purple- 
black  bursting  figs  and  blushing  peaches  waiting  to 
be  gathered  warm  on  the  garden-wall, — but  here,  for 
I did  not  content  myself  with  looking  at  them,  the 
pleasures  of  sight  merge  themselves  in  memory  into 
those  of  a more  carnal  sense. 

Turning  to  joys  enhanced  by  the  elements  of  roused 


22 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


imagination,  how  often  have  I sat  musing  among  the 
spreading  boughs  of  a great  old  Spanish  chestnut-tree 
(somehow  associated  in  my  boyish  mind  with  the 
Armada),  whence  the  view  of  the  pleasant  Playford 
hollow  included  a few  acres  of  reedy  marsh  known  as 
“ the  mere  ” : a name  that  stirred  my  imagination 
mightily,  and  I can  well  remember  how  I tried  in 
vain — for  this  mere  had  no  open  water — to  make  it 
serve  me  for  King  Arthur’s  death-scene,  or  how  anon, 
having  had  the  idea  thrust  upon  me  that  its  mud  was 
“ bottomless,”  I would  convert  it  into  a morass 
tragically  fraught  with  histories  of  engulfed  armies. 

In  moods  like  this  the  knowledge  of  the  sea’s  neigh- 
bourhood to  our  home,  and  of  its  sending  twice  a day 
its  marginal  waters  inland,  flooding  the  mud-banks  of 
the  estuaries,  and  lifting  and  stroking  back  their  water- 
weeds,  until  it  was  met  by  the  outflow  of  our  meadow 
streams, — this  knowledge  helped  to  dilate  the  childish 
spirit  with  a sense  of  ulterior  mystery,  and  of  the 
possibility  of  great  world-voyages  lying  not  remotely 
beyond  the  horizon  lines.  I remember  this  sense 
receiving  a queer  special  point  and  significance  from 
the  fact  that  not  far  from  the  place  where  our  two 
brooks,  the  Lark  and  the  Fynn,  having  run  together 
into  one,  broaden  out  to  form  a tidal  creek  of  the 
Deben,  there  stood  a public  house  having  for  sign  a 
grotesque  carved  and  scarlet-painted  head  and  shoulders 
of  a red  lion  (the  Red  Lion  of  Martlesham)  which  had 
served,  we  knew,  in  old  time  as  the  figure-head  of  an 
ocean-going  ship. 

But  more,  I honestly  believe  and  am  not  ashamed 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  23 


to  own,  more  than  the  direct  disinterested  pleasures 
of  the  sense  of  sight,  more  even  than  the  stirrings  of 
an  awakened  world-imagination,  there  was  a third 
cause  which  helped  in  those  growing  years  to  stamp 
images  of  nature  upon  my  memory,  and  that  was  the 
excitement  of  the  chasing  or  sporting  instincts  which 
went  along  with  them,  and  which  we  owe,  I suppose, 
to  long  lines  of  predatory  ancestors.  That  instinctive 
tension  of  the  nerves  and  tingling  of  the  pulses  in 
pursuit,  or  at  the  mere  presence  of  wild  creatures 
small  or  great,  disposes  the  faculties  to  a peculiarly 
vivid  reception  and  retention  of  all  accompanying 
impressions.  At  the  stage  the  world  has  reached,  I 
do  not  see  that  there  is  morally  much  to  be  said  in 
favour  of  men  chasing  and  killing  dumb  animals  for 
pleasure,  or  even  for  the  sake  of  the  exercise,  which 
some  forms  of  chase  involve,  of  the  virtues  of  physical 
courage,  skill,  or  endurance.  Personally,  therefore,  I 
have  long  been  a convinced  if  reluctant  convert  from 
field  sports  ; yet  I cannot  but  fear  that  much  of  our 
truest,  deepest  and  even  most  poetical  love  of  nature 
may  go  with  them.  It  is  all  very  well  for  a sentimen- 
talist like  Leigh  Hunt  to  write  (as  he  did  more  effec- 
tively perhaps  than  any  one  since)  against  the  pleasures 
that  “ strew  the  brakes  with  agonies  of  feathered 
wounds.”  Hunt  was  brought  up  within  the  precincts 
of  Christ’s  Hospital,  with  only  three  weeks’  country 
holiday  in  the  year.  But  take  the  case  of  Wordsworth, 
and  see  with  what  gusto  he  recalls  his  boyish  delights 
of  bird’s-nesting  and  woodcock-snaring,  and  how  fully 
he  acknowledges  the  share  which  these  excitements 


24 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


had  along  with  others  in  forging  the  links  that  bound 
his  soul  to  nature.  For  my  own  insignificant  part,  I 
know  that  I should  never  have  felt  as  I do  the  charm 
of  dew-silvered  morning  meadows  or  translucent 
sleeping  water-pools  if  I had  not  been  used  as  a boy 
to  visit  them  at  dawn  intent  on  nothing  but  seeing 
whether  my  night-lines  were  stretched  or  slack.  Nor 
should  I cherish  half  such  visions,  “ felt  in  the  blood 
and  felt  along  the  heart,”  of  the  red  and  pale  gold 
woods  of  autumn  quivering  in  bright  November  air, 
but  for  the  hours  I have  stood  expectant  beside  them 
with  the  gun ; nor  take  half  such  delight  in  the  soft 
undulations  and  tender  colouring  and  atmospheric 
mystery  of  the  winter  fields,  if  I had  not  galloped 
over  them  with  quickened  pulses  in  many  a hare-hunt. 
But  enough — it  is  not  of  myself  that  I set  out  to  speak, 
but  of  the  country-side  where  I was  brought  up  and 
of  some  poets  of  whom  it  has  been  at  one  time  or 
another  the  home. 

These  are  perhaps  as  many  and  as  distinguished 
as  any  other  area  of  equal  extent  in  England  can 
boast,  always  excepting  the  strongly  contrasted  Lake 
Country.  It  is  interesting  to  note  with  what  different 
feelings  they  have  regarded  the  country  of  their  birth 
or  adoption.  Perhaps  it  is  hardly  fair  to  bring  in  the 
earliest  of  them,  Giles  Fletcher  (brother  to  the  better 
known  Phineas),  who  in  the  days  of  James  I held 
the  living  of  Alderton,  one  of  our  characteristic  coast- 
ward parishes  of  half-reclaimed  heath-land  bordering 
upon  the  marshes  of  a river  mouth.  Giles  was  in 
poetry  one  of  the  later  and  weaklier  offshoots  of  the 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  25 


literary  school  of  Spenser.  He  had  distinguished 
himself  while  still  a bachelor  of  arts  at  Trinity  with 
his  poems  Christs  Victory  and  Christs  Triumph , and 
had  also  been  an  admired  preacher  of  university  ser- 
mons in  the  same  spirit  of  devout  and  dulcet  Christian 
allegory.  He  was  ardently  attached  to  his  college 
and  university,  and  languished  in  his  rural  preferment, 
finding  the  people  savage  and  the  place  unhealthy. 
“ He  was  settled,”  writes  Thomas  Fuller,  “ in  Suffolk, 
which  hath  the  best  and  worst  aire  in  England ; best 
about  Bury,  and  worst  on  the  Sea-Side,  where  Master 
Fletcher  was  beneficed.  His  clownish  and  low-parted 
parishioners  (having  nothing  but  their  shoes  high  about 
them)  valued  not  their  Pastour  according  to  his  worth  ; 
which  disposed  him  to  melancholy  and  hastened  his 
dissolution.”  The  worst  and  best  air  in  England 
indeed!  What  would  the  sententious  and  sagacious 
Fuller  have  said  if  he  could  have  foreseen  how  in  the 
whirligig  of  time  opinion  concerning  the  salubrity 
of  our  seacoast  climate  would  spin  round,  and  how 
Felixstowe  for  instance  (which  is  only  five  miles  across 
the  ferry  at  the  Deben  mouth  from  Alderton)  would 
change  from  the  hamlet  I can  myself  remember  to  some 
mile-and-a-half’s  length  of  smart  and  smiling  villa 
frontage,  and  how  guide-books  would  babble  of  its 
“ invariably  invigorating  air,”  and  doctors  send  their 
patients  to  it  from  far  and  wide  ? 

Coming  down  the  best  part  of  two  centuries  from 
the  days  of  the  grumbler  Giles  Fletcher,  we  find  the 
chief  of  our  East-Suffolk  poets,  Crabbe,  inclined  to  take 
a view  of  the  local  scenes  and  characters  not  much 


26 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


less  disparaging  than  his.  Our  countryside  must  be 
content  to  have  produced  in  Crabbe  not  a lover  or 
eulogist,  but  a son  who  by  natural  gift  might  have 
been  almost  as  pre-eminent  in  the  realist  family  of 
creative  writers  as  Scott  (who  always  generously  insisted 
on  seeing  in  him  an  equal)  in  the  romantic.  Remember 
that  when  Crabbe  had  long  done  his  best  work  Scott 
had  only  written  his  poems,  things  that  for  all  their 
vigour  and  charm  do  not  strike  very  deep,  and  that 
his  great  creative  work  of  the  Waverley  novels  was 
still  to  come.  In  his  own  day  and  way  Crabbe  was 
an  actual  pioneer  without  rival  in  the  delineation  of 
the  scenes,  characters,  and  passions  of  the  humble 
provincial  world  which  he  best  knew.  His  life  until 
he  was  near  thirty  was  almost  entirely  spent  at  the 
coast  town  of  Aldborough,  within  a score  of  miles 
of  my  home,  and  from  it  is  drawn  the  main  part  of 
the  inspiration  of  the  most  living  of  his  works,  The 
Borough . His  volumes  were  of  course  in  my  father’s 
book-shelves,  but  my  attention  was  never  called  to 
them.  Had  it  been  so  called,  I wonder  whether  I 
should  in  some  half-conscious  way  have  been  put  off 
by  that  prevailing  discord  between  his  matter  and 
his  manner  which  is,  as  I think,  the  great  bar  to 
Crabbe’ s holding  the  place  in  our  literature  he  might 
otherwise  have  deserved.  For  in  spite  of  the  recorded 
high  admiration  of  his  work  by  the  finest  spirits  of 
his  own  and  of  a later  day — as  Scott,  Charles  James 
Fox,  Wordsworth,  Byron,  Newman,  Tennyson,  Fitz- 
Gerald— in  spite  of  this,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
with  lovers  of  poetry  in  general  he  has  failed  to  hold 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  27 


his  own.  Squalid  tragedy  however  intense,  descriptive 
detail  however  exact  and  vivid,  unflinchingly  stern 
or  sarcastically  amused  veracity  and  insight  in  human 
portraiture  however  varied,  have  somehow  ceased  to 
find  their  way  to  our  acceptance  through  a literary 
medium  artificial  and  outworn  as  was  the  ten-syllable 
couplet  in  the  mode  in  which  Crabbe  employed  it. 
When  to-day  we  think  of  him  as  a real  poet  holding 
rank  among  other  poets,  it  is  not  the  staple  of  his 
work  that  we  have  in  mind,  but  exceptional  intensely 
imagined  passages  such  as  occur,  for  instance,  in  that 
fine  dramatic  lyric  Sir  Eustace  Grey  ; and  then  we 
cannot  but  remember  how  to  stir  up  Crabbe’s  poetic 
faculty  to  this  pitch  it  took  a severe  illness  followed 
by  a strong  remedial  course  of  opium.  It  is  but 
occasionally  that  in  the  main  body  of  his  narrative 
work  he  rises  into  real  poetry  ; oftenest  in  the  indignant 
vein  ; seldomer  in  that  of  pathos  or  tenderness  ; in 
that  of  natural  description  more  rarely  still,  for  his 
quality  as  an  observer  of  nature  is  essentially  scientific  ; 
thus  in  dealing  with  the  flowers  and  vegetation  of  his 
country-side  he  can  never  leave  out  the  details  that 
shall  remind  us  of  his  being  a fully  trained  botanist. 
His  use  of  the  traditional  medium,  the  heroic  couplet, 
sometimes  tempts  him  to  make  obvious  rhetorical 
or  epigrammatical  points  where  such  points  are  out  of 
place  ; sometimes  also  to  employ  a stilted  or  senten- 
tious or  abstract  phrase  where  a plain  phrase  would 
have  conveyed  his  meaning  better.  But  in  the  main 
he  uses  the  style  and  language  natural  to  his  own 
temperament,  and  these  are  not  the  style  and  language 


28 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  poetry  at  all,  but  of  prose ; and  prose  does  not 
become  poetry  by  the  mere  fact  of  being  mechanically 
chopped  into  lengths.  Crabbe’s  true  place  in  litera- 
ture, one  often  feels,  had  not  the  Popeian  tradition 
of  his  day  set  him  on  a mistaken  track,  should  have 
been  that  of  a great,  in  his  own  day  unprecedented, 
master  of  humble  human  narrative  and  detailed 
natural  description,  but  in  prose  rather  than  in  verse. 

Not  that  the  passion  for  descriptive  detail  in  Crabbe’s 
work  implies  in  him  much  share  of  the  modern  senti- 
ment of  nature  or  delight  in  nature  for  nature’s  sake. 
On  the  contrary,  more  exclusively  even  than  other 
and  older  poets  of  his  age,  he  judges  nature  not  by 
her  power  of  pleasing  the  contemplative  and  disinter- 
ested part  of  man,  but  by  her  aptitude  to  serve  or 
thwart  him  in  his  practical  necessities.  Accordingly 
he  condemns  and  satirizes  the  scenery,  as  he  does 
the  manners,  of  the  Aldborough  coast,  which  had  been 
intensely  stamped  upon  his  observation  and  imagina- 
tion from  childhood.  Not  merely  does  he  make  it 
a part  of  the  penalty  of  the  abhorred  and  cruel  Peter 
Grimes — 

At  the  same  time  the  same  dull  views  to  see. 

The  bounding  marsh-bank  and  the  blighted  tree ; 

The  water  only,  when  the  tides  were  high, 

When  low,  the  mud  half -covered  and  half -dry  ; 

The  sun-burnt  tar  that  blisters  on  the  planks, 

And  bank-side  stakes  in  their  uneven  ranks  : — 

not  merely  does  he  punish  his  criminal  with  sights 
which  might  interest  pleasurably  a modern  painter 
or  lover  of  the  picturesque,  but  speaking  in  his  own 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  29 


person,  he  thus  resents  the  colour  and  variety  of  the 
unprofitable  vegetation  of  the  coast: — 

Lo  ! where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  o’er, 
Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring  poor. 
From  thence  a length  of  burning  sand  appears, 

Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  wither’d  ears  ; 

Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 

Reign  o’er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted  rye  : 

There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 

And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war  ; 

There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 

There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil ; 

Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 

The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf  ; 

O’er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a shade, 

And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade  ; 

With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 

And  a sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around. 

These  are  examples  of  Crabbe’s  descriptive  work 
near  its  best.  But  a similar  or  even  more  minute 
cataloguing  method  serves  him  less  well  when  not  the 
stationary  but  the  shifting,  and  less  yet  when  the  sudden 
and  stormy,  phenomena  of  nature  are  concerned. 
These  need  a broader  sweep  of  vision  and  words  more 
concentrated  to  express  them.  Turn  for  instance  to 
those  contrasted  effects  of  calm  and  storm  at  sea 
from  the  opening  of  the  same  poem,  The  Borough , 
which  drew  when  they  were  first  published  the  enthusi- 
astic praise  of  Gifford.  The  observations  recorded  in 
the  fourteen  lines  of  the  storm  passage  are  minutely 
accurate  : the  last  three  or  four  show  a true  knowledge 
of  geological  cause  and  effect ; but  I remember  to 


30 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


have  heard  a more  effective  piece  of  sea-description 
in  half  a dozen  words  from  the  lips  of  an  inland-bred 
serving  woman  of  that  peasant  race  he  knew  so  well. 
She  had  been  brought  to  the  coast  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  on  a ruffling  day,  and  after  looking  at  the 
sea  for  a few  moments  said  in  her  Suffolk  accents 
and  in  a tone  not  of  approval,  “ Wha’,  do  it  alluz 
goo  muddlin'  about  like  that  ? 55 

The  chief  market  town  and  inland  centre  of  this 
region  so  familiar  to  my  boyhood  is  Woodbridge,  on 
the  Deben.  Crabbe  himself  lived  there  for  three  of 
his  early  years,  and  later  it  was  the  home  of  two  very 
unlike  and  unequally  gifted  men  of  letters,  both  of 
whom  held  the  place  and  its  neighbourhood  in  great 
affection.  These  were  Bernard  Barton  and  Edward 
FitzGerald,  the  one  belonging  to  the  generation  of 
Southey  and  Lamb,  the  other  to  that  of  Tennyson 
and  Thackeray.  Bernard  Barton,  no  East  Anglian 
by  blood  but  a Cumbrian,  served  nearly  all  his  manhood 
as  clerk  in  a Quaker  bank  at  Woodbridge.  Himself 
a Quaker,  he  was  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was 
amiable  and  cultured  in  that  sect,  and  withal  a person- 
age of  a singularly  fine  manly  presence  and  genial 
conversation.  He  and  Charles  Lamb  had  met  once  or 
twice  at  the  table  of  Taylor  and  Hessey  the  publishers, 
and  from  those  meetings  ensued  a friendship  carried 
on  almost  entirely  by  correspondence.  It  is  as  the 
“ B.B.  ” of  Lamb’s  letters  (one  of  them  including  his 
immortal  rhapsody  on  a cold  in  the  head)  that  Bernard 
Barton  is  now  almost  exclusively  known  to  the  general 
reader.  But  his  volumes  in  their  day  ran  through 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  31 


several  editions.  For  one  selected  and  collected  edition 
practically  all  the  gentry  in  the  county  subscribed, 
and  I find  my  father’s  name  among  the  rest.  But 
his  work  was  valued  far  beyond  local  circles  both  for 
its  own  qualities  of  metrical  fluency  and  simple,  pious 
benignity  of  temper,  and  also  as  a mild  and  palatable 
antidote  against  the  Byron  fever  of  the  hour.  Lamb 
shared  this  view  to  the  full.  “ I like  them,”  he  writes, 
“for  what  they  are,  and  for  what  they  are  not.  I 
have  sickened  on  the  modern  rhodomontade  and 
Byronism,  and  your  plain  Quakerish  beauty  has  cap- 
tivated me.  It  is  all  wholesome  cates ; aye,  and 
toothsome  too : and  withal  Quakerish.”  But  else- 
where we  find  Lamb  warning  his  friend  candidly  and 
shrewdly  against  some  besetting  foibles  of  his  muse. 
“ Religion  is  sometimes  lugged  in,  as  if  it  did  not 
come  naturally.  You  have  also  too  much  of  singing 
metre,  such  as  requires  no  deep  ear  to  make ; lilting 
measure  ; strike  at  less  superficial  melodies.”  These 
simple  words  of  Lamb’s  leave  little  more  that  is  to 
the  purpose  for  criticism  to  say. 

Bernard  Barton’s  view  and  handling  of  the  East- 
Suffolk  countryside  is  as  unlike  Crabbe’s  as  possible. 
His  poetry  is  full  of  praises  of  the  scenery  of  Wood- 
bridge  and  its  neighbouring  villages.  His  descriptions, 
we  may  confess,  are  uncertain  in  colour  and  touch, 
and  his  verses  are  apt  to  weary  the  reader  of  to-day 
by  their  shallow  fluency  alike  of  thought  and  sound. 
I have  already  quoted  one  set,  descriptive  of  the  water- 
brook,  the  Lark,  at  Great  Bealings.  Here  are  two 
examples  closely  pertinent  to  our  theme,  and  perhaps 


32 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


as  pleasant  as  his  work  will  furnish.  The  first  is  on 
Landguard  Fort,  a solitary,  not  inconsiderable  fortifi- 
cation of  an  old-fashioned  kind  built  on  the  extremity 
of  a shingle-spit  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ipswich  river 
opposite  Harwich.  It  was  a haunt  of  Gainsborough’s 
and  the  subject  of  his  brush  in  early  days,  but  the 
sentiment  of  the  scene  has  been  marred  of  late  by 
the  proximity  of  the  railway  station  and  new  villa 
extensions  of  Felixstowe  : — 

Along  the  sands,  and  by  the  sound 
Of  ocean,  moaning  night  and  day. 

It  stands  : its  lonely  burial-ground 
Scattered  with  low  stones,  moss’d  and  grey. 

Whose  brief  inscriptions  fade  away 
Beneath  the  ocean-breeze’s  spell ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  moon’s  pale  ray, 

Still  walks  the  nightly  centinel. 

The  above  little  piece  has  a real  charm  of  conciseness 
and  melody  : next  let  us  hear  our  poet  when  he 
apostrophizes  his  beloved  river  Deben : — 

No  stately  villas  on  thy  side. 

May  be  reflected  in  thy  tide  ; 

* * * * * 

No  ruin’d  abbey  grey  with  years 
Upon  thy  marge  its  pile  uprears  ; 

Nor  crumbling  castle,  valour’s  hold. 

Recalls  the  feudal  days  of  old, 

Nor  dost  thou  need  that  such  should  be 
To  make  thee,  Deben,  dear  to  me  ; 

Thou  hast  thy  own  befitting  charms 
Of  quiet  heath  and  fertile  farms. 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  33 


With  here  and  there  a copse  to  fling 
Its  welcome  shade,  where  wild  birds  sing ; 

Thy  meads  for  flocks  and  herds  to  graze  ; 

Thy  quays  and  docks,  where  seamen  raise 
Their  anchor,  and  unfurl  their  sail 
To  woo  and  win  the  favouring  gale. 

And  above  all  for  me  thou  hast 
Endearing  memories  of  the  past ! 

Well,  Derwent  and  Yarrow,  we  must  once  more  admit, 
have  inspired  more  thrilling  strains.  Yet  it  is  pleasant 
to  share  the  idyllic  meditations  of  our  lettered  Quaker, 
and  to  read  of  his  genial  ways  and  conversation,  of  his 
enjoyment  and  power  of  making  others  enjoy,  “on 
some  summer  afternoon,  perhaps  at  the  little  inn  on  the 
heath,  or  by  the  river-side,  or  when,  after  a pleasant 
picnic  on  the  sea-shore,  we  drifted  homeward  up  the 
river,  while  the  breeze  died  away  at  sunset,  and  the 
heron,  at  last  startled  by  our  gliding  boat,  slowly  rose 
from  the  ooze  over  which  the  tide  was  momentarily 
encroaching  ” — it  is  pleasant  to  read  these  things  of 
Bernard  Barton  in  the  words  of  his  younger  friend 
and  biographer  already  mentioned,  Edward  Fitz- 
Gerald. 

That  accomplished  Cambridge  scholar — scholar  alike 
in  classic  and  Oriental  tongues — lived  for  the  greater 
part  of  his  life  in  the  retirement  of  this  same  country- 
side. His  singular  intellectual  temperament,  in  which 
originality  and  culture  bore  equal  parts,  found  its  best 
expression  in  verse  translations  which  were  in  truth 
not  so  much  translations  as  free  and  finished  variations 
on  the  themes  supplied  by  his  text.  By  blood  and 


34 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


descent  he  was  no  Eastern  Counties  man,  and  indeed 
no  Englishman,  but  pure  Irish,  his  father  having  been 
a John  Purcell  married  into  a family  of  FitzGeralds 
whose  name  and  arms  he  took  after  his  father-in-law’s 
death.  These  Purcells  had  owned  large  landed  estates 
in  various  English  counties,  and  through  an  unlucky 
mining  speculation  had  lost  them  all  except  one  at 
Boulge  in  East  Suffolk.  In  my  early  days  the  head 
of  the  house  was  settled  at  Boulge  Hall,  some  four 
miles  from  my  home.  Among  other  eccentricities  this 
FitzGerald  was  a ranting  evangelical  out-of-door 
preacher,  and  in  ways  and  dress  and  behaviour  in 
general  so  abnormal  as  to  pass  among  the  neigh- 
bouring squires  almost  for  a lunatic.  Scarcely  less 
eccentric  was  supposed  to  be  his  younger  brother 
Edward.  I have  spoken  of  him  as  Barton’s  friend  and 
biographer,  not  seeking  to  recall  the  nearer  formal 
relationship  in  which  they  stood.  After  Barton’s 
death  Edward  FitzGerald  married  his  daughter,  it  is 
supposed  from  motives  of  generosity,  as  she  was  left 
ill  off.  But  this  was  one  of  the  actions  of  his  life  which 
earned  for  him  his  own  name  for  himself,  Ballyblunder. 
It  was  soon  followed  by  a separation,  and  he 
resumed  his  former  bachelor  way  of  living.  He 
lodged,  we  all  knew,  over  Berry’s  the  gunmaker’s  on 
the  Market  Hill  in  Woodbridge.  By  report  we 
youngsters  knew  also,  not  without  envy,  of  the  sailing 
yacht  he  kept  upon  our  neighbouring  river  the  Deben. 
But  of  his  being  a writer  and  the  friend  and  intimate 
correspondent  of  the  most  famous  writers  of  his  time, 
Carlyle,  Tennyson,  Thackeray,  and  the  rest,  we  never 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  35 


heard  or  dreamed.  All  we  saw  in  him  was  an  odd,  tall, 
sad-faced,  middle-aged  or  elderly  gentleman  wandering, 
say  rather  drifting,  abstractedly  about  the  country 
roads  in  an  ill-fitting  suit  with  a shabby  hat  pushed 
back  on  his  head,  blue  spectacles  on  nose  and  an  old 
cape  cast  anyhow  about  his  shoulders.  Few  figures 
were  more  familiar  to  me  by  sight,  few  less  regarded ; 
and  many  a time  must  my  pony’s  hoofs  have  bespat- 
tered this  forlorn-looking  figure  as  we  cantered  past  him 
in  the  neighbouring  lanes.  Other  distinguished  per- 
sonages belonging  to  or  frequenting  our  country-side 
we  had  been  duly  taught  to  recognize  and  respect. 
There  was  Sir  George  Biddell  Airy  for  one,  the  inde- 
fatigable and  world-famous  Cambridge  mathematician 
and  astronomer  royal,  who  had  built  himself  a little 
holiday  home  in  the  neighbouring  village  of  Playford, 
to  which  his  mother  belonged  (and  where  there  had 
lately  lived  and  died  another  no  less  celebrity  of  a 
different  kind,  Thomas  Clarkson,  the  devoted  leader 
of  the  campaign  for  the  abolition  of  negro  slavery). 
There  was  Sir  William  Page  Wood  for  another,  the 
brilliant  lawyer,  afterwards  Lord  Chancellor  under  the 
title  of  Lord  Hatherley,  who  had  spent  his  childhood 
in  his  grandfather’s  house  at  Woodbridge  and  was  a 
constant  visitor  to  a brother-in-law  (beautiful  old 
gentlemen  to  look  at  I justly  thought  them  both)  who 
held  the  living  of  the  parish  next  our  own,  Great 
Bealings.  But  it  never  entered  our  thoughts  that  in 
after  life,  when  these  scientific  or  philanthropic  or  legal 
distinctions  should  have  faded  save  in  the  memory  of 
specialists,  the  brother  of  the  crazy  preaching  squire 


36 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  Boulge  would  be  famous  with  a growing  fame 
through  all  the  English-speaking  world.  All  that  world 
now  knows  how  he  spent  his  time  translating — or  shall 
we  rather  say  transmuting — into  English,  in  a manner 
all  his  own,  many  dramas  from  the  Greek  and  Spanish, 
and  diverse  obscure  poems  from  Eastern  tongues,  and 
how  of  all  these  versions  there  is  one,  his  rendering 
of  certain  meditative  staves  of  an  old  Persian  astron- 
omer-poet, which  has  been  found  to  express  most 
vitally  and  musically,  most  intimately,  most  haunt- 
ingly,  that  which  is  the  ruling  mood  of  our  generation 
in  face  of  the  mystery  of  things  and  of  their  causes, 
the  unsolved  problems  of  human  origin  and  destiny  : — 

‘Up  from  Earth’s  Centre  to  the  Seventh  Gate 
I rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn  sate, 

And  many  a Knot  unravelled  by  the  Road, 

But  not  the  Master-Knot  of  Human  Fate. 

There  was  the  Door  to  which  I found  no  Key  ; 

There  was  the  Veil  through  which  I might  not  see ; 

Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Thee 

There  was — and  then  no  more  of  Thee  and  Me.’ 

Needless  to  say,  it  is  no  matter  of  reproach  to  our 
parents  or  teachers  that  they  did  not  open  our  eyes 
to  the  fact  of  this  unrecognized  genius  living  almost 
at  our  doors ; for  in  those  days  (I  speak  of  about 
1855-1865)  FitzGerald  had  either  not  printed  his 
translations,  or  printed  them  anonymously  and  so 
furtively  that  for  all  except  his  intimates  they  might 
as  well  not  have  been  printed  at  all.  The  admiration 
of  a select  few,  among  them  Rossetti  and  his  group, 


AN  EAST-SUFFOLK  BOYHOOD  AND  SOME  POETS  37 


for  his  version  of  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 
caused  that  one  translation  to  be  reprinted  several 
times,  each  time  with  fresh  and  arbitrary  variations, 
by  the  translator  during  his  life  but  still  without  his 
name.  It  was  not  until  towards  1890,  some  seven 
years  after  his  death,  that  the  posthumous  issues  of 
the  poem  began  to  get  that  hold  upon  the  general 
reading  public  both  in  England  and  America  which 
has  since  caused  it  to  be  reprinted  in  edition  after 
edition  too  numerous  to  count,  editions  ranging  from 
the  simplest  and  cheapest  to  the  most  gorgeous,  and 
has  earned  for  its  author  the  honour  of  at  least  two 
full-dress  biographies,  the  last  honour  that  he  would 
have  dreamed  of  or  desired.  What  would  he  have 
said  could  he  have  lived  to  see  that  stage  spectacle 
founded  on  his  text  which  is  the  latest  and  surely  the 
most  fantastic  development  of  the  cult  ? 


CHAPTER  II 
JOHN  RUSKIN 

Some  of  the  most  vivid  of  my  childish  and  boyish 
recollections  are  of  John  Ruskin,  whose  parents  were 
friends  of  my  parents  and  for  whom  my  mother 
entertained  an  adoring  regard,  coupled,  I think,  with 
the  ambition  that  I,  her  youngest,  should  grow  up  to 
be  as  nearly  as  might  be  such  another.  From  very 
tender  years  I used  to  be  taken  from  time  to  time  to 
visit  the  Ruskins  in  their  family  abode  on  Denmark 
Hill.  But  from  these  earliest  days  I retain  less  recol- 
lection of  the  great  man  himself  than  of  his  mother. 
Stern  old  Calvinist  as  she  was,  and  more  than  Spartan 
as  had  been  her  upbringing  of  her  own  son,  she  chose 
to  make  something  of  a pet  of  me.  I have  now  before 
me  a copy,  with  its  shiny  yellow  boards  all  rubbed  and 
dingy,  of  her  son’s  tale  for  children,  The  King  of  the 
Golden  River , with  Richard  Doyle’s  illustrations,  which 
she  gave  me  in  1852,  when  I was  just  short  of  seven 
years  old,  and  which  my  governess  helped  me  to  adorn 
on  the  back  of  the  frontispiece  with  a grateful  inscrip- 
tion, set  in  an  ornamental  border  of  crimson  lake  and 
cobalt.  A little  later,  I remember — at  least  I hope 
it  was  a little  later — she  used  to  regale  me  on  each  visit 
with  a glass  of  fine  sherry  (the  house  of  Ruskin,  Telfer 

38 


JOHN  RUSKiN 


39 


and  Domecq  were  great  sherry  merchants)  and  a slice 
of  plum  cake.  It  was  not  until  my  ninth  year  that  I 
was  taken  with  my  two  elder  brothers  expressly  to 
see  the  great  man  himself  and  be  admitted  to  his  own 
room.  He  received  us  raw  boys  with  extraordinary 
kindness,  and  one  thing,  I remember,  instantaneously 
delighted  us.  This  was  a scene  between  him  and  his 
white  Spitz  terrier  Wisie  (I  think  there  is  mention  of 
Wisie  somewhere  in  Praeterita).  The  dog  burst  into 
the  drawing-room  just  after  we  had  arrived,  and  not 
having  seen  his  master  for  some  time  leapt  and  capered 
and  yelped  and  fumed  about  and  over  him  as  he  sat, 
with  a passion,  almost  a frenzy,  of  pent-up  affection, 
and  was  caressed  with  little  less  eagerness  in  return. 
Ruskin  then  took  us  up  to  his  working-room,  and  by 
way  of  giving  us  a practical  drawing-lesson  made  before 
our  eyes  a sketch  in  body-colours  of  one  corner  of  the 
room,  with  its  curtain,  wall-paper  and  furniture — all 
of  them  of  a type  which  to  the  altered  taste  of  the  next 
generation  would  have  seemed  too  Philistine  and  early 
Victorian  to  be  endured.  For  very  many  years  I had 
that  sketch  by  me,  but  fear  that  in  one  or  another  of 
my  various  changes  of  domicile  it  has  now  got  lost 
beyond  recovery.  During  the  next  few  years  such 
visits  and  lessons  were  several  times  repeated.  But 
the  Turners  on  the  walls  and  their  owner’s  kind 
endeavours  to  interest  me  in  them  used  still,  I fear, 
to  make  less  impression  upon  me  than  the  slice  of  cake 
and  glass  of  sherry  with  which  the  old  lady  never 
failed  to  regale  me. 

This  for  the  first  four  or  five  years  ; but  before  I was 


40 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


fifteen  I had  become  intensely  sensitive  both  to  the 
magnetism  of  Ruskin’s  personality  and  to  the  power 
and  beauty  of  his  writings.  No  man  had  about  him 
more— few  can  ever  have  had  so  much — of  the  atmo- 
sphere and  effluence  of  genius,  and  when  he  came  into 
the  room  I used  consciously  to  thrill  to  his  presence. 
In  those  years,  a little  before  and  after  the  fortieth 
of  his  age,  he  was  elegant  after  the  fashion  of  his  time 
as  well  as  impressive  in  a fashion  all  his  own.  There 
remains  with  me  quite  unfaded  the  image  of  his 
slender,  slightly  stooping  figure  clad  in  the  invariable 
dark  blue  frock  coat  and  bright  blue  neck-tie  ; of  his 
small  head  with  its  strongly  marked  features,  its  sweep 
of  thick  brown  hair  and  closely  trimmed  side-whis- 
kers ; above  all,  of  the  singular  bitter-sweet  expres- 
sion of  his  mouth  (due  partly,  as  I have  always  under- 
stood, to  the  vestiges  of  a scar  left  on  the  upper  lip  by 
a dog’s  bite  in  boyhood)  and  of  the  intense  weight  and 
penetration  of  his  glance  as  he  fixed  his  deep  blue 
eyes  upon  yours  from  under  the  thick  bushy  prominence 
of  his  eyebrows  (these  were  an  inheritance  from  his 
father,  who  had  them  shaggier  and  longer  than  I 
have  seen  on  any  other  man).  The  warmth  and 
almost  caressing  courtesy  of  his  welcome  were  as 
captivating  as  its  manner  was  personal : in  shaking 
hands  he  would  raise  the  forearm  from  the  elbow, 
which  he  kept  close  to  his  side,  and  bringing  the  hand 
down  with  a full  sweep  upon  yours  would  hold  you 
firmly  clasped  until  greetings  were  over  and  talk, 
which  generally  turned  immediately  to  teaching, 
began. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


41 


To  such  teaching,  when  it  was  addressed  to  myself, 
I could  naturally,  at  my  age,  only  listen  in  adoring 
acquiescence.  But  what  I loved  better  still  was  to 
be  allowed,  as  occasionally  happened,  to  sit  by  while  he 
let  himself  go  in  the  company  of  some  friend  who  could 
meet  and  draw  him  out  on  equal  terms.  It  was  not 
very  often  that  I saw  him,  since  my  people  spent  the 
greater  part  of  each  year  in  our  country  home  in  Suffolk ; 
but  for  two  or  three  years  he  was  hardly  ever  out  of 
my  thoughts  except  during  the  hours  when  they  were 
quite  engrossed  by  those  rough  outdoor  sports  of  hare- 
hunting, pheasant-shooting,  village  cricket  and  the  like, 
of  which  I have  already  spoken.  The  fifth  volume 
of  Modern  Painters,  which  appeared  when  I was  in 
my  sixteenth  year,  was  a gospel  which  for  a while  I 
pored  over  incessantly  and  held  incomparable  for 
insight  and  wisdom  and  eloquence ; and  by  it  I was 
led  to  an  equally  passionate  study  of  the  Seven  Lamps, 
the  Stones  of  Venice,  and  the  rest  of  the  early  works  on 
art.  A queer  freak  of  memory  comes  convincingly 
to  remind  me  how  strong  must  have  been  the  prepos- 
session. On  a holiday  trip  in  Ireland  I remember 
walking  after  dinner  in  the  moonlight  on  the  shore  of 
one  of  the  Killarney  Lakes  in  company  with  a grown- 
up guest  at  the  same  hotel,  a middle-aged  Admiralty 
clerk  if  I recollect  aright ; and  to  break  a long  and 
awkward  silence  said  suddenly  to  him  a propos  of 
nothing,  by  way  of  a conversational  opening  which 
was  bound  to  impress,  “ I know  Buskin.” 

But  the  phase  of  absolute  devotion  and  unquestion- 
ing subservience  did  not  last  long.  Being  taken  by 


42 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


my  father  (again  I think  with  an  idea  of  following  in 
Ruskinian  footsteps)  for  several  carriage  tours  on  the 
Continent  in  the  course  of  the  next  two  or  three  years, 
I found  myself,  rather  to  my  own  dissatisfaction, 
beginning  to  see  famous  scenes  and  cities,  buildings  and 
pictures,  no  longer  purely  through  the  master’s  eyes 
but  through  my  own.  Later  again,  during  my  Cam- 
bridge years  and  afterwards,  I seemed  unwillingly  to 
find,  in  those  parts  of  his  writings  which  I was  able 
to  check  by  my  own  studies,  much  misinterpretation 
of  history,  a habit  of  headlong  and  unquestioning  but 
often  quite  unwarranted  inference  from  the  creations 
of  art  to  the  social  conditions  lying  behind  them,  with 
much  impassioned  misreading  of  the  relations  of  art 
in  general  to  nature  and  to  human  life  ; everywhere 
the  fire  of  genius,  everywhere  the  same  lovingly,  pierc- 
ingly intense  observation  of  natural  fact ; everywhere 
the  same  nobleness  of  purpose  and  burning  zeal  for 
human  welfare,  the  same  beautiful  felicity  and  persuas- 
iveness of  expression,  the  same  almost  unparalleled 
combination  of  utter  sincerity  with  infinite  rhetorical 
and  dialectical  adroitness  and  resource ; but  every- 
where also  the  same  dogmatic  and  prophetic  con- 
viction of  being  able  to  set  the  world  right  by  his  own 
individual  insight  and  judgment  on  whatever  matters 
might  occupy  his  mind  and  heart,  the  same  intolerant 
blindness  to  all  facts  and  considerations  that  might 
tell  against  his  theories,  the  same  liability  to  intermingle 
passages  of  illuminating  vision  and  wisdom  with  others 
of  petulant,  inconsistent,  self-contradictory  error  and 
mis  judgment.  In  short  this  demigod  of  my  later  boy- 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


43 


hood,  though  still  remaining  an  object  of  admiring 
affection  and  an  inestimable  source  of  stimulation  and 
suggestion,  came  to  count  for  me  no  longer  as  a leader 
and  teacher  to  be  followed  except  with  reserve  and 
critical  after-thought. 

These  were  not  terms  on  which  Ruskin  much  cared 
to  be  accepted,  especially  by  one  who  had  been  brought 
as  a child  to  sit  at  his  feet ; and  after  I had  grown  up 
and  begun  to  work  at  the  criticism  and  history  of  art, 
in  my  own  plodding  and  uninspired  way,  as  faithfully 
as  I could,  our  meetings  were  rare  and  correspondence 
only  occasional.  Once,  I remember,  he  was  gravely 
hurt  by  some  opinions  I had  expressed  in  one  of  the 
quarterly  reviews  in  controversy  with  his  own  on  the 
relation  of  art  to  morals.  And  when  at  twenty-eight 
I was  appointed  Slade  Professor  at  Cambridge  he  again 
wrote  expressing  the  hope  that  at  any  rate  I should 
not  make  my  tenure  of  the  chair  an  opportunity  for 
inculcating  views  in  opposition  to  his  teaching  from 
the  same  chair  at  Oxford.  Our  terms  of  intercourse, 
when  intercourse  occurred,  continued  nevertheless  to 
be  those  of  old  family  friendship,  and  I never  found 
that  his  personal  presence,  whether  at  public  gatherings 
or  in  private  intercourse,  had  lost  its  power  to  charm 
and  thrill.  One  of  the  instances,  I remember,  when 
its  effect  was  strongest  upon  me  was  at  a lecture  of 
his  at  the  Royal  Institution  in  which  he  had  occasion 
to  recite  Scott’s  ballad  of  Eosabelle.  The  whole  genius 
of  the  man,  as  all  those  who  remember  him  will  agree 
— his  whole  intensity  of  spiritual  and  imaginative  being 
— used  to  throw  itself  into  and  enkindle  his  recitation 


44 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  poetry.  His  voice  had  a rare  plangent  and  pene- 
trating quality  of  its  own,  not  shrill  or  effeminate  and 
yet  not  wholly  virile,  which  singularly  enhanced  the 
effect ; that  evening  he  was  at  his  very  best,  and  for 
those  who  heard  him  the  46  wondrous  blaze  r * never,  I 
am  sure,  gleamed  on  Roslin’s  castled  rock  and  the 
groves  of  caverned  Hawthornden  so  magically  before 
or  since. 

There  was  perhaps  somewhat  less  of  genius  and  more 
of  perversity  in  his  behaviour  one  afternoon  about  the 
same  time,  when  we  were  both  staying  at  the  Scotch 
country-house  of  a much-cherished  and  picture-loving 
mutual  friend.  A tea-picnic  having  been  arranged 
at  a special  spot  as  the  object  of  the  party’s  afternoon 
walk,  the  master  broke  up  the  plan  by  tacitly  but 
firmly  insisting  on  walking  off  and  casting  about  on  a 
quest  of  his  own  in  a different  direction.  A daughter  of 
the  house  who  dutifully  attended  him  remembers 
that  the  object  of  his  search  was  an  old  stone- breaker 
at  work  beside  the  road.  He  was  always  fond  of 
getting  into  talks  with  stone-breakers  and  watching 
their  work  on  the  chance  of  its  yielding  some  inter- 
esting mineral  find.  To  this  particular  old  stone- 
breaker  he  promised,  after  several  talks,  to  send  a 
book  on  stones  and  minerals,  and  when  the  old  man 
answered  that  it  would  be  no  use  because  he  could  not 
read,  Ruskin  took  him  at  once  into  warmer  favour 
than  ever.  During  the  same  visit,  I remember,  his  talk 
was  at  its  best  and  most  illuminating  in  praise  of  three 
things  in  our  host’s  collection,  an  early  Rossetti,  an 
early  Millais,  and  a drawing  by  Burne-Jones  ; and  the 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


45 


substance  of  the  said  talk,  being  afterwards  set  down, 
turned  into  the  essay  on  The  Three  Colours  of  Prae - 
Raphaelitism.  One  of  the  happiest  later  encounters 
that  I remember  was  at  the  house  of  the  same  Burne- 
Jones,  his  all  but  equal  in  genius  and  charm.  This 
was  during  one  of  the  not  infrequent  intervals  when  he 
used  to  be  at  the  height  of  his  powers  again  between 
two  of  the  fits  of  mental  breakdown  to  which  he  had 
become  subject  after  1879.  When  two  such  men  were 
pouring  out  for  each  other  the  riches  of  their  minds 
and  hearts,  any  third  who  had  the  luck  to  be  of  the 
company  could  do  nothing  but  listen  silently  and  be 
grateful.  Later  again,  at  the  beginning  of  1888,  when 
he  was  an  aged  and  bearded,  changed  and  saddened 
man,  I found  him  simply  courteous  and  businesslike, 
though  on  the  eve,  as  it  turned  out,  of  one  of  his  longest 
and  most  grievous  mental  disturbances,  when  I had 
the  opportunity  of  arranging  with  him  the  purchase 
for  the  British  Museum  of  a precious  volume  of  early 
Italian  drawings  of  the  history  of  the  world,  by  means 
of  which  I was  by-and-by  enabled  to  solve  (at  least 
in  my  own  opinion)  one  of  the  obscurest  problems  of 
fifteenth  century  art  and  to  recreate  the  hitherto 
semi-mythic  personality  of  the  father  of  Italian 
engraving,  Maso  Finiguerra. 

All  the  world  knows  how  by  degrees  and  with  advanc- 
ing years  the  passion  in  Buskin  for  opening  the  eyes 
and  awakening  the  consciences  of  his  fellow-creatures 
not  only  grew  more  intense,  but  extended  itself  to 
every  sphere  of  human  conduct  and  activity,  of  ex- 
istence both  social  and  individual ; and  how  he,  in 


46 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


private  intercourse  the  sweetest  and  most  deferentially 
courteous,  the  most  playfully  engaging  and  lovable 
of  men,  became  in  public  an  Ezekiel  not  to  be  appeased 
or  silenced,  an  embittered  denouncer  of  all  the  institu- 
tions, all  the  practices  and  traditions,  of  industry  and 
commerce,  of  exchange,  distribution  and  class  organ- 
ization on  which  the  social  fabric  has  in  every  modern 
community  been  founded  ; and  not  only  of  these,  but 
of  almost  all  the  methods  of  study  and  research  by 
which  the  modern  mind  has  striven  to  investigate  the 
truths  of  nature  and  turn  to  account  the  material  laws 
of  things.  Of  the  truth  and  value  of  these  tremendous 
prophetic  and  denunciatory  labours  I felt  myself  no 
more  able  to  judge  than  any  average  person  who 
accepts  because  he  must  the  social  order  under  which 
he  lives,  and  holds  that  the  general  lot  of  man  can 
only  be  gradually  amended  by  the  collective  good-will 
and  long-sustained  efforts  of  many  generations.  The 
path  of  any  solitary  world-reformer,  however  impres- 
sively, however  gloriously,  gifted,  who  would  suddenly 
refashion  the  inherited  social  complex  and  transform 
the  customs,  standards,  and  desires  of  man  by  the 
efforts  of  his  single  genius  must  lead,  it  would  seem, 
inevitably  to  madness,  and  his  efforts  to  tragic  failure. 
Tragic  to  the  direst  uttermost  would  Ruskin  himself 
assuredly  have  deemed  his  failure  could  he  have  lived 
to  see  the  events  and  tendencies  of  the  last  few  years  : 
the  mutual  rage  of  slaughter  and  destruction  between 
nations,  the  devastated  fields  and  defaced  cathedrals  of 
his  beloved  France  ; the  cleavage,  estrangement,  and 
suspicion  subsisting  unabated  between  rich  and  poor  ; 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


47 


and  in  the  sphere  of  art,  to  name  one  symptom  only, 
the  fury  of  civic  vulgarization  which  in  our  would-be 
grandest  thoroughfares  has  sacrificed  all  sense  and 
style  and  fitness  to  the  demon  of  advertisement, 
giving  to  the  most  massive  of  architectural  piles 
unmitigatedly  absurd  and  garish,  unstructural  ground- 
floor  frontages  all  of  glass,  the  most  fragile  of  things. 
But  sad  as  was  in  his  latter  years  the  personal  destiny 
of  Buskin,  and  futile  the  apparent  temporary  issue 
of  his  toil,  the  English-speaking  race  has  just  been 
unanimously  remembering  the  hundredth  anniversary 
of  his  birth  as  though  it  had  been  that  of  an  acknow- 
ledged world-benefactor.  And  for  the  time  being  it 
looks  as  though  his  labours  toward  social  regeneration 
were  coming  to  be  regarded  by  many  as  the  true 
benefaction,  while  his  views  on  the  fine  arts  and  the 
relations  of  art  to  life  and  nature  have  lost  much  of  the 
influence  they  had.  Posterity  alone,  and  that  not  an 
early  posterity,  will  have  had  experience  enough  to 
assess  the  relative  values  of  his  multifarious  endeavours. 
For  myself,  I can  but  bear  my  insignificant  witness  to 
the  debt  I owe  both  to  his  personality  and  his  genius, 
and  to  the  spell  which  in  early  youth  they  exercised 
upon  me.  Better  than  to  be  taught  how  to  see,  and 
what  to  think  and  feel,  is  to  be  so  aroused  that  one  is 
forced  to  see,  think,  and  feel  for  oneself : and  that 
is  what  the  work  of  Buskin  did  for  thousands  of  us  who 
would  never  label  ourselves  his  disciples. 


CHAPTER  III 

EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 

The  next  great  admiration  of  my  life  after  Ruskin 
was  for  Burne-Jones,  and  this  (seeing  that  he  was 
only  twelve  years  my  senior)  was  not  of  the  same 
distantly  adoring  strain  as  my  boyish  cult  of  Ruskin 
had  been,  but  of  a kind  much  more  equal  and  com- 
panionable. Enthusiasm  for  his  work  had  made  me 
seek  his  acquaintance  even  before  I had  taken  my 
degree  at  Cambridge,  that  is  some  time  in  1886-7,  and 
the  charm  of  his  personality  completed  what  love  for 
his  painting  had  begun.  As  soon  as  I came  to  London 
and  took  up  journalism — principally  as  art  critic  on 
the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  in  its  early  days  under  the  fighting 
editorship  of  Frederick  Greenwood — I began  to  lay 
about  me  on  his  behalf  against  the  dunder-headed 
majority  of  critics,  for  such  I held  them,  who  belittled 
or  derided  his  gift.  He  himself  was  from  the  first 
too  much  absorbed  in  his  creative  tasks  to  concern 
himself  much  about  criticism  whether  hostile  or 
friendly ; and  fortunately  he  had  from  the  first  had 
friends  and  backers  whose  appreciation  saved  him 
from  any  serious  danger  of  the  wolf  at  the  door : 
Rossetti  foremost,  then  fellow-artists  and  craftsmen 
like  Morris,  Birket  Foster,  Arthur  Hughes ; very  soon 

48 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


49 


afterwards  Ruskin ; and  before  long,  wealthy  collec- 
tors like  Mr.  W.  Graham  and  Mr.  Leyland.  But 
in  my  own  early  life  both  the  zest  of  public  battle  on 
his  behalf,  and  the  pleasure  of  being  often  with  him 
in  such  spare  hours  as  he  could  afford  his  friends 
of  an  evening  or  on  Sunday,  counted  for  very 
much. 

In  the  then  state  of  English  painting,  the  appeal, 
which  is  the  special  business  of  that  art,  to  the  sense 
of  visible  beauty  or  significance  in  things,  to  that 
faculty  which  perceives  and  insists  on  the  harmonious, 
the  suggestive  and  striking  relations  and  combina- 
tions of  forms  and  colours  in  the  world,  was  made 
almost  exclusively  in  the  representation  of  remote 
or  romantic  subjects.  There  were  one  or  two  excep- 
tional and  finely  gifted  men,  like  George  Mason  and 
Frederick  Walker,  who  brought  the  instinct  of  design 
and  the  paramount  aim  at  pictorial  value  and  effect 
into  their  treatment  of  scenes  of  actual  life  and  nature. 
But  from  the  average  popular  art  depicting  scenes 
and  figures  of  ordinary  life  the  attempt  to  appeal  to 
such  sense  had  almost  entirely  passed  away,  and  people 
had  got  used  to  looking  at  pictures  not  for  any  truly 
pictorial  value  they  might  possess,  but  simply  for  the 
sake  of  the  story  they  more  or  less  expressively  told 
or  the  scenery  they  more  or  less  accurately  reproduced. 
The  result  was  a kind  of  shallow  reflection  of  obvious 
aspects  of  life  and  nature,  leaving  out  all  the  characters 
which  more  finely  attuned  senses  could  discern  in 
daily  things  or  a more  active  power  of  selection  and 
arrangement  impose  on  them.  The  half-century  from 


50 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


then  till  now  has  happily  made  a vital  difference  for  the 
better  in  the  quality  of  every-day  art.  Almost  any 
exhibition  of  to-day  will  show  plenty  of  work  bringing 
out  and  turning  to  true,  unforced  pictorial  account 
the  latent  impressiveness  and  suggestiveness  for  the 
eye  residing  in  every  common  sight  that  nature  or 
man’s  toil  provides,  were  it  only  the  chimneys  of  a 
group  of  factories  against  the  sky,  or  the  iron  framework 
of  some  new  building  with  its  cranes  and  girders,  or 
the  clashing  chaos  of  coloured  advertisements  on  a 
street  hoarding.  So  also  in  portraiture,  instead  of 
the  arbitrary  imposition  on  a sitter  of  some  accepted 
and  more  or  less  abstract  type  of  feature  or  expression, 
any  current  exhibition  will  show  a search  for  and 
insistence  on  something  characteristic  which  is  really 
there,  and  which  by  sensitiveness  of  seeing  and  render- 
ing can  be  made  to  yield  a result  human  and  pictorial 
in  one. 

In  the  days  of  which  I speak,  half  a century  or  more 
ago,  almost  the  only  kind  of  painting  in  England  which 
possessed  true  pictorial  quality  and  made  its  appeal 
specifically  to  and  through  the  eye  was,  as  I have  said, 
and  paradox  as  the  statement  may  sound,  the  painting 
which  called  up  and  visualized  not  every-day  appear- 
ances of  life  and  nature  but  themes  of  poetry  and 
imagination.  The  stimulus  of  such  themes  moved 
a certain  class  of  artists  to  the  effort,  not  to  “ illus- 
trate ” them  in  any  commonplace  sense  of  the  word, 
but  to  create  a corresponding  world  of  forms  and 
colours,  “ visions  and  dreams  and  symbols,”  making 
to  the  ocular  sense  a parallel  appeal  to  that  which  the 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


51 


themes  themselves  made  to  the  literary  sense  and 
imagination.  To  this  kind  of  painting  it  was  the 
masterful  spirit  of  Rossetti  which  gave  the  dominant 
impulse,  although  of  the  two  arts  which  he  himself 
practised  he  was  more  really  accomplished  in  verse 
than  with  the  brush.  It  was  Rossetti  who  had  ordered 
Burne-Jones  (his  advice  to  his  friends  was  always  virtu- 
ally an  order)  to  attack  at  twenty-two  the  practice  of 
imaginative  and  poetic  painting  without  any  of  the 
usual  preliminary  training  of  hand  and  eye.  From 
this  first  impulsion,  or  compulsion,  and  from  study  of 
the  earlier  painters  of  Italy  together,  Burne-Jones 
drew  the  impetus  which,  working  in  his  own  intense 
and  intensely  personal  artistic  temperament,  carried 
him  on,  after  a few  trying  years  of  derision  and  neglect, 
through  a full  career  of  passionately  strenuous  labour 
to  ultimate  recognized  success.  I have  neither  the 
space  nor  the  purpose  here  to  discuss  the  quality  of 
his  life’s  rich  output  of  imaginative  and  decorative 
work : hardly  even  to  glance  at  the  kind  of  attack 
nowadays  sometimes  directed  against  it  from  a new 
point  of  view,  by  those  who  declare  that  painting 
must  appeal  to  the  eye  and  the  visual  emotions  only 
and  stop  there — that  any  sign  of  mind  or  meaning 
behind  the  visual  effect  is  a positive  blot  on  a picture 
and  makes  of  it  “ literature  in  two  dimensions  ” and 
the  like.  Stuff  and  nonsense!  Of  course— and  it 
should  need  no  saying — the  primary  and  essential 
appeal  of  every  picture  must  needs  be  to  the  eye,  by  its 
harmonies  and  rhythms  of  line  and  colour,  its  balancings 
and  massings  and  proportions  and  contrasts  of  light 


52 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  shade,  and  by  their  direct  effect  upon  the  visual 
emotions.  If  such  appeal  and  such  effect  are  not 
forthcoming,  or  if  they  fail,  the  picture  is  naught ; 
but  if  they  succeed  and  the  picture  is  a picture  indeed, 
then  the  more  of  mind  that  can  be  felt  behind  it,  the 
richer  the  associations  and  suggestions  it  conveys,  the 
better. 

Full  as  are  the  gifts  of  mind  to  be  discerned  behind 
Burne-Jones’  work,  rich  as  are  the  imaginative  associa- 
tions it  calls  up,  it  represents  only  a part  of  the  wealth 
and  colour  of  his  being.  For  one  thing,  notwithstand- 
ing all  its  beauty,  its  felicity  and  inexhaustible  original 
invention  in  colour  and  linear  design,  as  far  as  concerns 
the  human  types  it  depicts  it  is  in  the  main  of  a melan- 
choly cast.  Hostile  critics  used  to  be  continually 
harping  on  the  fact  that  to  nearly  all  his  figures, 
whether  designed  singly  or  in  groups,  in  repose  or  in 
action,  he  was  prone  to  give  looks  of  wistful,  unsatis- 
fied longing,  sad  eyes  and  mouths,  a pining  droop 
or  yearning  out-thrust  of  the  head  from  the  shoulders. 
Let  it  be  granted : such  was  in  truth  the  prevailing 
instinctive  and  involuntary  cast  of  his  imagination. 
And  why  not  ? Must  not  every  artist  whose  work 
comes  from  any  depth  of  soul  be  governed  by  his  own 
personal  cast  of  imagination — just  as,  to  take  two 
instances  far  removed  in  time  as  in  kind,  Botticelli 
and  J.  F.  Millet  were  governed  respectively  by  theirs  ? 
And  is  the  world  we  live  in,  and  is  the  heart  of  man, 
so  made  that  in  the  depths  of  any  great  man’s  soul 
there  is  not  likely  to  reside  an  instinct  of  yearning  and 
craving,  not  likely  to  be  harboured  a passion  of  unsatis- 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


53 


fied  spiritual  quest  and  hunger  ? Such  a strain  of 
innermost,  still  hankering  soul-hunger,  such  a vital 
habit  of  the  being,  truly  lay  deep  in  Burne-Jones’s 
nature  and  could  not  help  expressing  itself  in  his  work. 
But  in  his  human  and  social  relations  other  strains 
in  him  prevailed,  partly,  perhaps,  because  he  chose 
that  prevail  they  should.  “ Never  at  any  time  in 
his  life,”  writes  with  perfect  truth  his  widow,  “ did 
his  ordinary  manner  betray  to  others  the  sadness  to 
which,  in  common  with  all  sensitive  natures,  he  was 
subject.  This  was,  I believe,  owing  to  a principle 
which  I find  formulated  in  one  of  his  letters : ‘ I hold 
it  a point  of  honour  with  every  gentleman  to  conceal 
himself,  and  make  a fair  show  before  people,  to  ease 
life  for  every  one,’ — and  partly  to  the  cheerful  effect 
which  companionship  always  had  upon  him.”  At  all 
events  in  company  he  charmed  no  less  by  a rich 
laughter-loving  gaiety  than  by  his  surprising  range 
of  knowledge  and  attainment  and  the  ease  and  beauty 
and  simplicity  of  language  with  which  he  brought  them 
to  bear  in  conversation. 

Born  amidst  relatively  straitened  surroundings  at 
Birmingham,  Burne-Jones  had  from  boyhood  found 
means  to  be  a devourer  of  books,  and  at  Oxford  and 
afterwards  had  received  from  the  brotherly  companion- 
ship of  William  Morris  a continually  renewed  stimulus 
and  sympathy  in  the  studies  they  both  loved.  His 
mind  was  in  one  sense  the  fullest — and  that  was  in  its 
range  over  and  grasp  of  the  imaginative  literatures  of 
the  world — that  I have  known.  Vast  as  was  his  life’s 
output  in  his  own  art,  and  tied  as  he  was  to  the  easel 


54 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


every  day  and  almost  all  day,  that  he  should  have  found 
time  for  so  much  .reading  seemed  a miracle.  Ancient 
classic  literature,  the  whole  range  of  mediaeval  legend 
sacred  and  profane,  Celtic  legend  and  poetry,  Scandin- 
avian legend  and  poetry,  the  poetry  and  romance  of 
Persia  and  the  East,  the  history  and  fabled  or  recorded 
aspect  of  all  the  storied  cities  of  the  world,  he  seemed 
to  possess  them  all,  not  as  dry  learning,  but  as  living 
matter  of  brooding  thought  and  delighted  imagination. 
Whatever  new  thing  one  might  have  chanced  to  learn 
within  this  range  of  such  subjects,  one  always  found 
that  he  had  known  it  long  ago  and  better.  According 
to  the  occasion  he  could  expatiate  on  any  such  matter 
in  an  abounding  vein  of  eloquence,  always  classically 
pure  and  simple,  or  sum  up  the  gist  of  what  he  had  to 
say  in  two  or  three  pithy  words.  Among  his  letters 
to  me  I find  one  hitherto  unpublished  which  will  give 
the  reader  a more  vivid  impression  of  his  mind  and 
manner  in  relation  to  such  studies  than  any  words  of 
mine  could  give.  I had  little  knowledge  of  Celtic 
legendary  lore  or  of  its  sources,  and  had  been  reading 
as  something  new  to  me  the  great  national  Irish  legend 
of  Deirdre  and  Cuchulain  (“  The  Sons  of  Usnach  ”) 
as  turned  into  modern  poetry  in  Aubrey  de  Vere’s 
volume  of  1882.  I had  some  personal  acquaintance 
with  that  very  lovable  and  accomplished,  then  ageing 
Irish  gentleman  and  poet,  who  in  his  youth  had  enjoyed 
the  friendship  of  Wordsworth  and  was  the  life-long 
intimate  of  John  Henry  Newman,  Henry  Taylor,  and 
the  Cambridge  group  which  included  Tennyson  and 
Monckton  Milnes.  There  was  truly  more  of  culture 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


55 


and  charm  than  of  fire  and  inspiration  in  his  verse.* * 
Nevertheless  I had  greatly  enjoyed  the  reading,  and 
wrote  as  much  to  Burne-Jones  from  a house  in  the 
Isle  of  Skye,  overlooking  the  Sound  of  Sleat,  where  I 
was  staying  with  his  friends  and  mine  the  William  Gra- 
hams. This  is  his  answer,  written  from  the  summer 
quarters  at  Rottingdean  which  he  had  lately  secured 
for  himself  and  his  family : the  date  is  some  time  in 
1882  or  1883. 

Rottingdean. 

My  dear  S.  C. — 

If  I write  red  hot  from  your  letter  it  will  be  best — else  I know 
what  will  happen — I was  so  glad  to  hear  from  you  and  about 

* Here  are  three  stanzas  by  way  of  specimen  for  those  who  do 
not  know  his  work. 

But  Deirdre  at  the  grave-head  stood  alone, 

The  surging  crowd  held  back  by  holy  dread  ; 

Her  face  was  white  as  monumental  stone  ; 

Her  hands,  her  garb,  from  throat  to  foot  were  red 

With  blood — their  blood.  Standing  on  life’s  dark  verge 

She  scorned  to  die  till  she  had  sung  their  dirge. 

* Dead  are  the  eagles  three  of  Culan’s  peaks  ; 

The  lions  three  of  Uladh’s  forest  glades  ; 

The  wonders  three  of  Alba’s  lakes  and  creeks  ; 

The  loved  ones  three  of  Etive’s  fair  young  maids  : 

The  crownless  sons  of  Erin’s  Throne  are  sped  : 

The  glories  of  the  Red  Branch  Order  dead. 

‘ Is  there  who  dreams  that,  now  my  Naisi’s  breath 
Is  stilled,  his  wife  will  tarry  from  his  side  ? 

Thou  man  that  mak’st  far  down  yon  cave  of  death, 

Be  sure  thou  dig  it  deep,  and  dig  it  wide  ! 

There  lie  the  Brothers  Three  ! ’Tis  just,  ’tis  meet 
Their  Sister  take  her  place  before  their  feet.’ 


56 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


friends  too — who  are  out  somewhere  on  the  map.  I once  looked 
on  the  map  for  them,  but  fled  in  despair — there  seemed  to  be  float- 
ing islands  and  one  very  very  far  off  was  Skye — I know  they  are 
beautiful,  I know  all  about  them — I have  travelled  everywhere — 
seen  all  places — but  my  home  is  Florence  where  Giotto  lived — 
nothing  can  lure  me  or  charm  me  away. 

Aubrey  de  Vere  sent  me  his  book  (woe  is  me  I haven’t  acknow- 
ledged it)  he  does  love  the  stories  but  I can’t  read  them  except 
in  their  first  barbaric  shape — they  can’t  be  done  by  any  one — 
but  he  does  really  love  and  know  all  about  them  and  is  a bard 
with  a harp,  but  not  the  harp  that  once  . . . 

I do  nothing — I can’t — the  clockwork  in  my  head  went  wrong 
and  buzzed  and  I can’t  wind  it  up  again  yet — I shall  stay  here 
till  the  end  of  the  month  at  least.  I am  brown  and  spotted  and 
red  and  fat  and  bald  and  drowsy — drowsy  always — but  not  sleeping 
well  for  all  that. 

R.  Dean  is  the  noisiest  city  in  the  world — from  2 in  the  morning 
when  the  earliest  cock  begins  till  10  at  night  when  the  last  yelling 
baby  is  put  to  bed  it  is  one  pandemonium  of  noise — but  out  on 
the  downs  it  is  peace  like  at  the  beginning  of  time. 

Your  aff. 

Ned. 

Modern  imaginative  literature  of  the  best  kind 
Burne-Jones  possessed  in  a scarcely  less  degree  than 
ancient,  at  least  so  much  of  it  as  is  to  be  read  in  English  ; 
his  two  chief  favourites  being  (as  they  are  the  favourites 
of  every  wise  reader)  Walter  Scott  and  Dickens.  As 
the  books  of  Louis  Stevenson  came  out  successively 
he  gave  them  a place  in  his  affection  next  almost 
to  these. 

I find  the  following  letter  written  soon  after  the  first 
publication  of  the  Child's  Garden  of  Verses  in  1885  and 
going  into  the  question  of  a possible  illustrated  edition : 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


57 


also  recording  his  first  and  I think  only  personal 
meeting  with  R.  L.  S.  : — 

The  Grange, 

West  Kensington,  W. 

My  dear  S.  C., — 

I can’t  think  who  should  be  The  one.  Crane  only  occurs  to 
me.  All  his  fancies  would  be  pretty  and  full  of  a hundred  inven- 
tions. I wish  I had  time  to  have  a try  at  it — but  it  is  no  use  to 
think  of  that,  for  my  days  are  full  to  the  brim — still  I keep  thinking 
over  the  matter  and  still  Crane  comes  uppermost  in  my  mind,  his 
Grimm  was  lovely,  and  he  is  now  so  experienced  in  making  them 
colour  his  designs  properly  that  it  seems  a pity  not  to  apply  there, 
where  at  least  there  is  certainty  of  excellence,  and  a chance  of 
something  better — it  is  a heavenly  book — we  haven’t  a Richter, 
never  have  had  one  and  it’s  a pity. 

Would  it  be  useless  to  ask  Leighton  ? He  draws  babies  with 
real  rapture  and  it  would  cost  him  little  trouble — but  no  one  is 
like  Crane  for  designing  borders  and  making  ornaments,  and  he 
would  festoon  the  book  divinely  if  he  were  in  a good  mood. 

Your  aff.  Ned. 

It  was  a lovely  evening  with  L.  S.  and  I loved  him.  I wish 
he  was  fat  and  well  and  like  a bull  and  lived  here. 

“ Have  you  read  Catriona  ? ” he  exclaims,  in  a letter 
written  soon  after  the  appearance  of  the  book,  some 
eight  years  later,  to  another  correspondent, — 

You  didn’t  tell  me,  and  if  you  had  you  must  have  talked  of 
it,  for  it  is  a wonder,  and  every  page  glitters,  and  I can’t  make 
out  why  the  Speaker  doesn’t  read  it  to  the  House  of  an  evening 
— much  better  for  them  to  listen  to  it  than  to  each  other’s  nonsense. 
I am  right  glad  he  has  made  a woman  at  last,  and  why  did  he 
delay  ? this  one  is  so  beautifully  made.  Oh,  he’s  a miracle  of  a 
lad,  that  boy  out  there  in  the  Cannibal  Islands  ; I wish  he  would 
come  back  and  write  only  about  the  Borderland. 


58 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


In  Dickens  what  Burne-Jones  loved  especially  were 
the  parts  most  riotously  comic.  I can  see  and  hear 
him  now  shouting  with  laughter  as  he  echoed  the 
choicer  utterances  of  Sam  Weller  or  Micawber  or  Mrs. 
Gamp,  his  head  flung  back  and  beard  in  the  air  (in 
early  days  it  was  the  fine  forked  and  flowing  red-brown 
beard  depicted  in  Watts’s  well-known  portrait,  but  later, 
one  grizzled  or  grizzling  and  shorter  trimmed).  And  he 
was  very  capable  of  original  Dickens-like  observations 
and  inventions  of  his  own.  No  one  had  a quicker  or 
more  healthily  amused  sense,  without  sting  or  ill-nature, 
of  the  grotesque  and  the  absurd  in  ordinary  life.  No 
one  loved  better  to  make  or  had  a better  gift  for  making, 
by  speech  or  pencil,  happy  fun  and  laughter  with  his 
children  and  grand-children.  In  these  last  he  took 
in  his  later  years  an  especial  delight,  and  loved  not 
only  to  draw  but  to  show  off  to  his  friends  the  sturdiness 
and  dimpled  fatness  of  their  infant  limbs.  Let  those 
who  desire  to  form  a just  idea  of  him  begin  by  realizing, 
if  they  can,  not  only  his  constant  and  most  winning 
sweetness  and  affectionateness  of  accost,  and  a certain 
indefinable  note  of  innate  distinction — something  more 
finely  bred  than  can  be  imparted  by  mere  breeding 
— in  all  that  he  did  and  said  and  was,  but  also  the 
love  of  and  capacity  for  jolly  mirth  and  caricature 
which  subsisted  along  with  the  more  wistful,  brooding 
and  craving  elements  in  his  nature.  He  could  be 
delighted  on  occasion  with  any  extravagance  of  melo- 
drama, and  it  was  a sight  to  see  him  hunch  his  shoul- 
ders up  to  his  ears  and  glower  as  he  repeated  in  hollow 
tones  from  a once  popular  stage-play  the  appalling 


EDWARD  BURNE-JONES 


59 


query,  “ Did  you  ever  see  the  Danites  ? ” All  these 
attractive  and  attaching  personal  qualities  naturally 
drew  in  his  later  years  a widening  circle  about  him, 
and  he  became  a celebrity  socially  sought  after  and 
well  known.  But  he  never  allowed  social  calls  to 
bring  about  a day’s  relaxation  of  his  industry  or  the 
smallest  abandonment  of  his  ideals.  To  none  of  his 
old  friends,  of  course,  did  the  slightest  change  ensue 
from  the  honours  which  were  almost  thrust  upon  him 
and  which  both  for  his  art’s  and  for  his  children’s  sake 
he  thought  it  right  to  accept.  When  his  oldest  and 
closest  friend  of  all,  William  Morris,  with  whom  he 
had  worked  and  thought  and  felt  all  their  lives  in  the 
closest  brotherly  association,  threw  himself  headlong 
into  the  cause  of  socialism,  Burne-Jones  would  not  follow 
him,  holding  that  an  artist’s  first  and  paramount  duty 
was  to  his  art,  and  knowing  that  in  his  own  case  at 
least  the  artist’s  life  and  the  politician’s  or  agitator’s 
were  physically  as  well  as  morally  incompatible.  But 
this  partial  sundering  of  their  ways  did  not  bring 
about  the  least  jar  or  breach  of  friendship  between 
the  two.  Bor  myself,  I retain  no  memories  of  him 
that  are  not  entirely  endearing. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

Looking  back  lately  through  volumes  of  the  West-* 
minster  Review  some  half  a century  old,  I found  under 
the  date  January  1871  an  essay  near  thirty  pages 
long  enthusiastically  quoting  and  praising  the  poetical 
writings,  both  translated  and  original,  of  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti.  Recognizing  the  essay  for  my  own, 
I was  freshly  reminded  of  the  fascinated  admiration 
which  possessed  me  in  those  days,  youngster  as  I was, 
for  the  poet-painter  and  his  work.  By  the  time  I 
left  Cambridge  I already  took  intense  pleasure  in 
some  of  his  early  paintings  which  I knew  in  the  houses 
of  friends  ; and  I held  (as  I still  hold)  his  renderings 
from  the  early  Italian  poets,  first  published  in  the 
volume  of  1861,  to  be  unmatched  among  feats  of  verse 
translation  for  graceful,  unforced  fidelity  to  the  spirit 
and  even  in  most  cases  to  the  letter  of  the  originals. 
Drawn  moreover  by  the  glamour  which  invested 
Rossetti’s  personality  as  the  main  inspiring  focus 
and  source  of  impulse  whence  had  sprung  all  I most 
cared  for — that  is  whatever  is  most  imaginative  and 
impassioned — in  the  English  art  of  the  time,  I asked 
Burne-Jones  to  take  me  to  him  ; was  kindly  received ; 
and  saw  much  of  him  throughout  the  years  1868-1872, 

60 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


61 


which  were  somewhat  critical  and  fateful  years  of 
his  life. 

I had  come  into  his  circle  of  course  too  late,  and 
with  the  Cambridge  stamp  and  direction  too  definitely 
impressed  upon  me,  to  undergo  the  full  dominating 
force  of  his  influence  such  as  it  had  been  exercised 
some  dozen  years  earlier,  when  he  suddenly  determined 
the  careers  of  men  like  Burne-Jones  and  William  Morris, 
or  earlier  yet  when  along  with  Holman  Hunt  and 
Millais  he  was  a leading  spirit  in  the  original  Prse- 
Baphaelite  movement.  The  best  days  of  his  life 
were  indeed  already  over.  Since  the  tragic  death  of 
his  wife  his  passionately  craving  and  brooding  nature 
had  been  gradually  losing  command  over  itself.  He 
had  let  himself  live  with  growing  recklessness,  and 
having  begun  to  suffer  from  habitual  insomnia,  was 
falling  into  the  chloral  habit  by  way  of  remedy. 
Everything  was  preparing  in  him  for  a constitutional 
breakdown : but  even  to  intimates  such  preparation 
was  as  yet  scarcely  apparent,  and  to  a newcomer 
such  as  I was  alike  the  man  himself  and  his  surround- 
ings and  way  of  life  were  irresistibly,  if  somewhat 
weirdly,  impressive. 

About  the  surroundings  and  the  way  of  life  so  much 
has  been  written  that  I shall  pass  them  over  quickly. 
The  handsome  old  red-brick  house  in  a row  looking 
on  the  Chelsea  reach  of  the  Thames ; the  combined 
gloom  and  richness  of  its  decorations,  the  sombre 
hangings,  the  doors  and  panellings  painted  in  sombre 
dark-green  sparsely  picked  out  with  red  and  lighted 
here  and  there  by  a round  convex  mirror  ; the  shelves 


62 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  cupboards  laden  with  brassware  and  old  blue 
Nankin  china  (in  the  passion  for  collecting  which 
Rossetti  was,  if  I remember  rightly,  an  absolute  pioneer); 
the  long  green  and  shady  garden  at  the  back,  with  its 
uncanny  menagerie  of  wombat,  raccoon,  armadillo, 
kangaroo,  or  whatever  might  be  the  special  pet  or  pets 
of  the  moment ; the  wilful,  unconventional,  unhealthy 
habits  and  hours ; the  rare  and  reluctant  admission 
of  strangers  ; all  these  things  have  already  been  made 
familiar  by  repeated  descriptions  to  such  readers  as 
are  curious  about  them.  So  have  the  aspect  and 
bearing  of  the  man  himself ; his  sturdy,  almost  burly 
figure  clad  in  a dark  cloth  suit  with  the  square  jacket 
cut  extra  long  and  deep-pocketed ; his  rich  brown 
hair  and  lighter  brown,  shortish,  square-trimmed 
beard,  the  olive  complexion  betraying  Italian  blood ; 
the  handsome  features  between  spare  and  fleshy,  with 
full,  sensual  underlip  and  thoughtful,  commanding 
forehead  in  which  some  of  his  friends  found  a likeness 
to  Shakespeare ; the  deep  bar  above  the  nose  and 
fine  blue-grey  colour  of  the  eyes  behind  their  spectacles  ; 
and  finally,  the  round,  John-Bullish,  bluntly  cordial 
manner  of  speech,  with  a preference  for  brief  and 
bluff  slang  words  and  phrases  which  seemed  scarce 
in  keeping  with  the  fame  and  character  of  the  man 
as  the  most  quintessentially,  romantically  poetic  of 
painters  and  writers. 

During  the  years  of  our  intercourse  it  was  Rossetti’s 
poetry  more  than  his  painting  that  interested  and 
impressed  me.  His  earlier  water-colours,  those  of 
the  Dante  cycle  especially,  comparatively  unambitious 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


63 


in  scale  and  technic  as  they  were,  seemed  to  me  (and 
still  seem)  to  give  by  their  fine  new  inventive  colour- 
harmonies,  their  passionate  intensities  of  expression 
and  their  rare  originality  and  often,  though  not  always, 
their  beauty  of  group-composition  and  pattern,  a more 
satisfying  idea  of  his  genius  for  painting  than  his 
ambitious  oil  pictures  on  the  scale  of  life.  It  was  at 
these  latter  that  he  had  been  principally  working, 
from  Mrs.  William  Morris,  Miss  Marie  Spartali,  Miss 
Wilding,  and  one  or  two  other  favourite  sitters,  for 
some  time  before  I knew  him.  Single  figures  among 
them,  looking  straight  out  of  the  frame — a Pandora, 
a Sibylla  Palmifera,  a Venus  Verticordia — possessed 
indeed  a fine  inventive  gorgeousness  of  colour  and  an 
impressive  mystical  voluptuousness,  or  voluptuous 
mysticism,  of  their  own.  But  for  figures  on  the  life 
scale  in  less  simple  attitudes,  or  for  combinations  of 
them,  his  powers  of  design  and  execution  seemed  never 
fully  adequate,  and  a certain  unpleasant  streakiness  in 
the  handling  of  the  oil  medium,  with  certain  exaggera- 
tions and  mannerisms  in  the  drawing  of  lips,  throats, 
and  other  features  made  that  long  and  sumptuous 
series  of  his  later  embodiments  of  the  eternal  feminine 
to  my  mind  less  and  less  admirable  as  time  went  on. 

But  Rossetti’s  poetry,  both  by  its  own  power  and 
by  the  manner  in  which  I learned  to  know  it,  for  the 
time  being  enthralled  me  completely.  The  story  is 
well-known  how,  in  a passion  of  grief  and  remorseful- 
ness at  the  time  of  his  wife’s  death,  he  had  buried 
the  original  bundle  of  his  manuscript  poems  with  her, 
laying  it  in  her  coffin  among  the  rich  strands  of  her 


64 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


red-gold  hair.  Of  a few  of  these  buried  poems  he  had 
drafts  or  copies  by  him,  and  would  sometimes,  when  I 
first  knew  him,  read  out  from  them  to  a small  circle 
of  his  intimates.  With  one  consent  these  used  to  urge 
him  to  have  the  whole  packet  of  the  poems  exhumed 
for  publication,  and  I on  my  part  joined  eagerly 
in  the  plea.  At  last  he  yielded,  and  the  necessary 
legal  permission  having  been  obtained  the  exhumation 
was  carried  out  under  the  eye  of  Rossetti’s  friend  and 
factotum  of  the  hour,  Charles  Augustus  Howell.  (A 
digression  concerning  this  brilliantly  plausible,  capable, 
and  entertaining,  totally  unscrupulous  and  untrust- 
worthy Anglo-Portuguese  intriguer,  the  satellite  in 
these  years  first  of  Ruskin  and  afterwards  of  Rossetti, 
would  in  this  place  be  tempting  but  must  be  forborne ; 
the  more  so  as  his  history,  far  liker  fiction  than  real 
life  as  it  was,  has  been  fully  set  out  by  another  hand.)* 

The  manuscript  poems  having  been  rescued,  and 
the  question  of  their  publication  having  next  to  be 
considered,  Rossetti  used  on  many  evenings  to  read 
out  from  them  to  a few  invited  guests  after  dinner. 
He  was  good  enough  to  care,  or  seem  to  care,  somewhat 
specially  for  my  opinion,  and  consulted  me,  both  ver- 
bally and  in  many  letters  which  I have  lately  re-read, 
about  the  revision  of  the  poems  and  the  order  in  which 
they  should  stand  in  the  proposed  volume,  in  the  end 
adopting  most  of  my  suggestions. 

But  the  readings  themselves  were  among  the  marking 
events,  and  remain  among  the  golden  memories,  of 
my  life.  Most  of  the  poets  I have  known  have  had 
* See  Murray  Marks  and  his  Friends , by  G.  C .Williamson  (J ohn  Lane) . 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


65 


their  own  special  way  of  reading,  and  it  was  generally 
interesting  or  impressive  to  hear.  Rossetti’s  way  was 
not  dramatic  in  any  ordinary  sense  of  the  word.  It 
was  rather  a chant,  a monotone  ; but  somehow  he 
was  able  with  little  variation  of  pitch  or  inflection 
to  express  a surprising  range  and  richness  of  emotion. 
His  voice  was  magical  in  its  mellow  beauty  of  timbre 
and  quality  and  in  its  power  to  convey  the  sense  of  a 
whole  world  of  brooding  passion  and  mystery,  both 
human  and  elemental,  behind  the  words.  A kind  of 
sustained  musical  drone  or  hum  with  which  he  used 
to  dwell  on  and  stress  and  prolong  the  rhyme- words 
and  sound-echoes  had  a profound  effect  in  stirring  the 
senses  and  souls  of  his  hearers.  There  are  certain 
poems  or  passages  of  poems,  the  fierce  visionary  and 
imprecatory  stanzas  of  Sister  Helen — the  “ rose 
shut  in  a book”  couplets  from  Jenny — above  all, 
perhaps  the  sad,  slow-trailing  cadences  of  the  lyric, 
A Little  While — 

A little  while  a little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me, 

Who  have  jiot  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day’s  last  sigh, 

Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone ; 

And  I have  heard  the  night-wind  cry, 

And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own, — 

there  are  poems  and  passages,  I say,  like  these  which 
still  haunt  my  ear,  and  will  haunt  it  to  the  end,  exactly 
as  they  were  sounded  from  the  poet’s  lips  on  those 
evenings  half  a century  ago.  Heard  and  judged  for 


66 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  first  time  under  these  conditions,  the  poetry  of 
Rossetti  naturally  impressed  me  profoundly,  and 
moved  me  to  a higher  pitch  of  critical  admiration 
than  I should  have  felt — though  the  pitch  would  still 
have  been  high — had  I known  them  for  the  first  time 
in  print. 

Moreover  it  was  an  hour  when  lovers  of  poetry  were 
rather  specially  hungry  and  thirsty  for  something  that 
should  satisfy  their  appetite  for  poetic  passion  and 
romance.  Tennyson,  at  the  height  of  his  fame  and 
power,  had  just  published  the  first  volume  of  his 
Idylls  of  the  King . After  In  Memoriam  and  Maud 
these  Arthurian  idylls  had  been  to  many  of  us  a grievous 
disappointment.  In  spite  of  their  sustained  and  subtle 
filagree  finish  of  execution  and  many  exquisite  passages, 
we  felt  that  they  were  but  tame  drawing-room  versions 
of  the  great  Arthur  legends,  versions  into  which  the 
taint  of  the  Victorian  age  and  of  Victorian  ethics  and 
ideals  and  constraints  and  politenesses  had  passed 
with  paralysing  effect.  And  we  found  ourselves  all 
the  more  thrilled  and  satisfied  by  the  full-blooded 
splendour  and  passionate  colouring  and  imagery  of 
Rossetti’s  work.  On  the  appearance  of  the  volume 
Swinburne  instantly  wrote  glorifying  it  in  his  most 
excited  vein  of  critical  panegyric.  And  for  what  my 
own  help  might  be  worth,  I rushed  to  review  and 
praise  it  in  as  many  quarters  as  were  open  to  me. 
Will  it  at  all  interest  the  reader  of  to-day  to  see,  by 
some  specimens  from  my  Westminster  Review  article 
aforesaid,  the  kind  of  welcome  which  Rossetti’s  poems 
got  from  a raw  but  sincere  youngster  familiar  with 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


67 


his  translations  from  the  Italian  and  in  love  with  the 
kind  of  imagery  which  came  natural  to  him  as  painter 
and  poet  in  one  ? After  trying  to  make  clear  the  way 
in  which  his  special  strain  of  imagination  resembled 
that  of  the  early  Italian  poets  in  that  it  instinctively 
invests  with  human  and  personified  shape  every  passion 
and  experience  of  the  soul,  and  how  in  this  kind  of 
poetry  the  mystical  and  the  pictorial  tendencies  work 
together : — 

The  subtle  passages  of  overburdened  consciousness  (I  go 
on  to  say),  the  inner  and  fugitive  experiences  of  the  spirit,  to  be 
expressed,  as  here,  in  terms  of  material  imagery,  demand  that  the 
figures  of  that  imagery  should  undergo  conditions,  movements, 
transformations  of  too  fleeting  and  too  vague  a kind  to  bear  com- 
plete mental  realization : this  is  consonant  with  the  mystical 
tendency,  while  on  the  other  hand  it  is  consonant  with  the  pictorial 
tendency  to  endow  its  concrete  figures  with  a reality  so  vivid,  and 
attributes  so  visible,  that  the  mind  cannot  avoid  their  complete 
realization  ; and  hence,  endeavouring  to  follow  them  through  all 
their  vicissitudes,  is  apt  to  feel  thrown  out  when  these  elude  the 
conditions  of  material  possibility.  This,  we  think,  may  be  a 
difficulty  to  arrest  the  reader  at  a sonnet  like  that  headed  “ He 
and  I or  to  make  his  full  enjoyment  of  the  wonderful  four 
headed  “ Willowwood  ” a matter  of  time  and  familiarity  ; or  to 
leave  something  still  wanting  from  the  perfection  of  the  following, 
called  “ Stillborn  Love,”  so  admirable  in  its  structure  and  dictiom 
so  striking  for  its  heat  and  volume  of  passion,  so  pregnant  and 
pathetic  with  its  suggestion  of  immortal  amends  for  the  frustration 
of  to-day  : — 

The  hour  which  might  have  been  but  could  not  be, 

Which  man’s  and  woman’s  heart  conceived  and  bore, 
Yet  whereof  fife  was  barren,  on  what  shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time’s  weary  sea  ? 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Bondchild  of  all  consummate  joys  set  free, 

It  somewhere  sighs  and  serves,  and  mute  before 
The  house  of  Love,  hears  thro’  the  echoing  door 
His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 

But  lo  ! what  wedded  souls  now  hand  in  hand 
Together  tread  at  last  the  immortal  strand 

With  eyes  where  burning  memory  lights  love  home  ? 

Lo  ! how  the  little  outcast  hour  has  turned 
And  leapt  to  them  and  in  their  faces  yearned  : — 

“ I am  your  child  : O parents,  ye  have  come  ! ” 

Turn  to  the  pair  of  sonnets  called,  “ Newborn  Death,”  in  which 
the  embodied  personages  of  Life,  Love,  Art,  Death,  Song,  float 
before  us  in  lineaments  of  such  new  and  moving  loveliness  as  belong 
to  the  very  rarest  region  of  the  imagination  ; or  to  any  of  the 
love-sonnets,  such  as  those  headed  “ Lovesight,”  “ Winged  Hours,” 
“ Lif e-in-Love,”  “ Parted  Love,”  “ Broken  Music,”  “ The  One 
Hope,”  which  in  the  fulness  and  richness  of  their  imagery  seem 
to  give  the  most  fitting  and  harmonious  as  well  as  the  most  adorned 
expression  to  phases  of  feeling  themselves  too  full  and  rich  for 
simple  utterance  ; phases  which  lie  between  joy  and  grief,  and 
are  more  complex  and  involved  than  either  ; in  which  feeling  does 
not  absorb  or  exclude  thought,  but  informs  and  inflames  it  for 
prospect  and  retrospect  as  well  as  for  the  passion  or  the  present- 
ations of  the  moment ; so  that  the  buoyancy  of  delight  is  clogged 
with  the  recollection  of  its  delay,  the  impetuosity  of  rapture  checked 
with  the  wistfulness  of  apprehension  or  chilled  with  the  shadow 
of  foreboding  ; the  bitterness  of  loss  involved  with  the  reminiscence 
of  triumph  or  the  augury  of  reparation  ; pain  and  pleasure  for 
ever  interwoven,  and  each  shot  through  with  the  consciousness, 
the  presentiment,  the  possibility  of  the  other. 

. . . The  fragmentary  House  of  Life , besides  its  fifty  sonnets, 
contains  also  some  highly-finished  pieces  of  different  lyric  form; 
most  of  these  too  dealing  with  the  fatalities  or  forebodings  of 
thwarted  passion.  The  three  melancholy  and  searching  stanzas 
of  the  song  called  “ A Little  While,”  are  quite  admirable  for  their 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


69 


careful  concentration,  as  well  as  for  the  reluctant  andante  of  their 
metrical  movement ; while,  by  way  of  contrast,  the  succeeding 
“ Song  of  the  Bower  ” storms  with  sonorous  anapaests  in  full 
charge,  and  tells  out  the  dire  constraint  of  separation  in  tones  only 
a little  weakened  (as  it  seems  to  us)  by  something  of  commonplace 
in  the  imagery  and  language  of  verses  two  and  three.  But  there 
is  no  poem  of  this  division  better  done,  or  more  answering  to  inward 
experiences,  than  one  having  nothing  to  do  with  love,  but  casting 
into  new  articulateness  a phase  of  that  vague  commerce  with  eternal 
things  of  which  from  time  to  time  a man  is  conscious,  when  one  or 
another  of  the  large  dealings  of  nature  laying  hold  upon  him  seems 
to  loosen  the  sensuous  bands  of  the  spirit,  and  lift  it  abroad  into  the 
knowledge  of  some  divine  environment,  some  uncomprehended 
unity  of  natural  with  human  and  spiritual  with  bodily  things.  The 
suggestion  comes  in  this  case  through  the  avenue  of  hearing  : — 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods  ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  ; 

Hark,  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  : they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea’s  speech. 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art : 

And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 

. . . Turning  to  those  contents  of  the  volume  which  do  not 
belong  to  the  House  of  Life,  a poem  of  things  near  at  hand  and 
of  yesterday — and  of  to-day  and  (alas  !)  to-morrow  also — is  that 
called  “ Jenny.”  A monologue  suggested  by  the  sight  and  presence 
of  a sleeping  harlot  was  a thing  from  which  the  English  muse  might 
have  been  held  bound  to  shrink.  But  the  manner  of  its  treatment 


70 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


here  is  such  as  to  have  given  offence,  so  far  as  we  know,  to  no 
reader  or  critic — a manner  perfectly  direct,  but  perfectly  free  from 
evil  enjoyment.  What  the  poem  does  is  to  set  forth,  with  poetical 
intensity  and  ornament,  such  a chain  of  thoughts  as  might  present 
itself  to  any  man  of  scholarship  and  imagination,  and  of  a certain 
vivacity  of  the  conscience,  under  the  circumstances.  Such  thoughts 
would  naturally  be  full,  as  these  are  full,  with  the  burden  of  all 
that  evil  which  presses  itself  upon  some  minds  as  a thing  that 
cannot  be  cured,  upon  others,  as  one  that  must  not  be  endured — 
of  the  curses  and  contrasts  of  civilization,  and  the  mysterious 
confines  of  good  and  evil.  The  fairest  thing  to  do  is  to  quote  at 
length  that  portion  of  the  poem  which  contains  its  two  leading 
and  most  elaborate  images,  the  imaginative  beauty  and  force  of 
which  will  come  home  to  every  reader,  as  well  as  the  technical  art 
which  has  thrown  into  the  eight-syllable  metre  so  much  of  varied 
and  involved  sweetness,  and  led  up  to  the  concluding  passage  in 
such  culminant  and  portentous  thunder  : — 

...  If  but  a woman’s  heart  might  see 

Such  erring  heart  unerringly 

For  once  ! But  that  can  never  be. 

Like  a rose  shut  in  a book, 

In  which  pure  women  may  not  look  ; 

For  its  base  pages  claim  control 
To  crush  the  flower  within  the  soul ; 

Where  through  each  dead  rose-leaf  that  clings, 

Pale  as  transparent  Psyche- wings, 

To  the  vile  text,  are  traced  such  things 
As  might  make  lady’s  cheek  indeed 
More  than  a living  rose  to  read  ; 

So  nought  save  foolish  foulness  may 
Watch  with  hard  eyes  the  sure  decay  ; 

And  so  the  life-blood  of  this  rose, 

Puddled  with  shameful  knowledge,  flows 
Through  leaves  no  chaste  hand  may  unclose  : 

Yet  still  it  keeps  such  faded  show 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


71 


Of  when  ’twas  gathered  long  ago, 

That  the  crushed  petals’  lovely  grain, 

The  sweetness  of  the  sanguine  stain, 

Seen  of  a woman’s  eyes,  must  make 
Her  pitiful  heart,  so  prone  to  ache, 

Love  roses  better  for  its  sake  : — 

Only  that  this  can  never  be  : — 

Even  so  unto  her  sex  is  she. 

. . . Like  a toad  within  a stone 
Seated  while  Time  crumbles  on  ; 

Which  sits  there  since  the  earth  was  curs’d 
For  man’s  transgression  at  the  first ; 

Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 

Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise  ; 

Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed, 

The  earth’s  whole  summers  have  not  warmed ; 

Which  always— whitherso  the  stone 
Be  flung — sits  there,  deaf,  blind  alone  ; — 

Aye,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 
Till  that  which  shuts  him  around  about 
Break  at  the  very  master’s  stroke, 

And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke, 

And  the  seed  of  man  vanish  as  dust : — 

Even  so  within  this  world  is  Lust. 

. . . What  any  poet  is  going  to  be  for  another  generation,  it  is 
not  given  to  his  contemporaries  to  tell.  But  what  Mr.  Rossetti 
in  his  own  generation  is  may  be  put  on  record ; and  that  is,  the 
poet  of  personal  passion — for  all  such  as  know  or  can  sympathize 
with  personal  passion  in  a shape  in  which,  being  most  paramount 
and  engrossing,  it  is  yet  not  most  direct  or  most  alone,  but  in  which 
it  takes  up  and  carries  along  with  it  all  collateral  elements  of  the 
being — and  the  more  modern,  the  more  highly  organized  and 
endowed  the  being,  the  more  complex  and  manifold  these  elements 
will  be — re-awakening  and  illuminating  all  forms,  all  pressures 
past,  adding  intensity  to  existence,  charging  and  complicating 
the  consciousness  with  images  from  far  and  near. 


72 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Rossetti  had  little  or  none  of  Burne-Jones’s  fine  self- 
sufficient  indifference  to  criticism.  It  is  not  true,  as 
has  been  said,  that  he  took  undignified  pains  to  ensure 
that  reviews  should  be  favourable.  Swinburne  of 
course  for  one,  and  I for  another,  were  absolutely 
unsolicited  volunteers  in  the  cause.  But  when  there 
appeared  the  late  Robert  Buchanan’s  preposterous 
attack  upon  him,  at  first  pseudonymous  and  then 
unveiled,  in  the  pamphlet  called  The  Fleshly  School  of 
Poetry , he  was  both  agitated  and  angered  beyond 
measure.  In  this  matter  again  I did  my  best,  together 
with  a group  of  other  ardent  friends  and  admirers, 
and  this  time  by  the  master’s  desire  and  request,  to 
stand  by  him  and  make  things  as  hot  for  his  assailant 
as  we  could.  At  the  same  time  I succeeded  in  dissuad- 
ing him — I had  forgotten  the  fact,  but  am  reminded 
of  it  by  his  brother’s  biography — from  printing  a satiric 
effort  of  his  own  against  the  enemy  which  struck  us 
as  neither  dignified  nor  effective. 

I have  scarcely  left  space  to  speak  of  the  humorous, 
burlesque-loving  elements  which  subsisted  in  Rossetti’s 
nature  alongside  of  the  darkly  passionate  and  mystical 
elements.  They  were  somewhat  singular  in  their  kind 
and  were  often  exercised  frankly  and  light-heartedly 
at  the  expense  of  those  about  him.  In  writing  they 
showed  themselves  chiefly  in  the  composition  of 
“ Limericks  ” on  the  characters  of  his  friends.  He  was, 
at  any  rate  while  his  days  of  tolerable  health  lasted, 
in  practice  a model  of  good  friendship,  somewhat 
masterful  and  domineering,  it  is  true,  among  those  of 
his  inner  circle,  but  infinitely  generous  withal  both  in 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


73 


word  and  act,  loving  to  praise  whatever  he  saw  worthy 
of  praise  in  any  one’s  work,  prompt  and  eager  to  help 
any  one  in  difficulties  with  money  or  whatever  form  of 
service  might  be  most  needed — in  a word,  essentially 
bon  prince.  But  at  the  same  time  he  had  the  shrewdest 
eye  for  his  friends’  faults  or  failings,  and  the  neatest 
possible  knack  in  exposing  such  faults  or  failings  in 
rhymes  which  he  was  apt  to  troll  out  with  gusto  in 
their  hearing  and  never  expected  them  to  resent.  For 
instance,  he  had  gladly  and  often  taken  in  and  housed  a 
certain  prae-Raphaelite  landscape-painter  called  Inch- 
bold.  The  recipient  of  this  hospitality  seeming  by  and 
by  somewhat  inclined  to  abuse  it,  Rossetti  wrote, — 

There’s  a troublesome  fellow  called  Inchbold, 

With  whom  you  must  be  at  a pinch  bold. 

Or  you  may  as  well  score 
The  brass  plate  on  your  door 
With  the  name  of  J.  W.  Inchbold. 

Sometimes  the  rhymes  would  take  off,  quite  harm- 
lessly and  pardonably,  some  physical  trait  of  their 
subject,  as  this  concerning  a senior  member  of  the 
circle,  the  shrewd,  thoughtful,  and  interesting  but 
technically  less  than  half-accomplished  Scottish  artist 
and  verse-writer,  William  Bell  Scott.  Scott,  a man 
by  this  time  bald  and  ageing,  was  commonly  known 
among  his  friends  as  “ Scotus  ” : — 

There’s  a crabbed  old  fellow  called  Scott, 

Who  seems  to  have  hair  but  has  not ; 

Did  he  seem  to  have  sense 
A still  vainer  pretence 
Would  be  painfully  obvious  in  Scott. 


74 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


That  is  all  very  well ; but  could  the  same  friend  be 
expected  to  take  it  kindly  when  the  essential  weak- 
nesses of  his  talent  were  faithfully  and  scathingly  hit 
off  as  follows  ? — - 

There’s  a queer  kind  of  painter  called  Scotus, 

A pictor  most  justly  ignotus  ; 

Shall  I call  him  a poet  ? 

No,  not  if  I know  it, 

A draggle-tailed  bungler  like  Scotus. 

Scott  may  in  truth  very  likely  never  have  heard 
the  second  of  these  staves : but  had  he  heard  and 
resented  it  he  could  scarcely  have  paid  off  the  score 
more  ill-naturedly,  and  at  the  same  time  more  inaccur- 
ately, than  by  his  treatment  of  Rossetti  in  his  post- 
humously published  Autobiographical  Notes  : a book, 
I may  allow  myself  to  remark  by  the  way,  which  I 
have  found  almost  unfailingly  inexact  in  every  one  of 
its  statements  that  I have  had  means  or  occasion  to 
check.  In  the  floating  memories  and  traditions  con- 
cerning Rossetti,  many  of  these  compositions  were 
long  current  and  some  are  current  still.  There  is  one 
which  I never  heard  much  repeated,  and  which  begins — 

There’s  an  eminent  critic  called  Colvin, 

Whose  writings  the  mind  may  revolve  in, — 

but  wild  horses  would  not  drag  from  me  the  sequel ; 
neither  does  the  stave  appear  in  the  collection  of  some 
two  dozen  such  included  by  the  late  William  Michael 
Rossetti  in  his  encyclopaedic  (and  surely  too  pro- 
miscuous and  ponderous  ?)  volume  of  his  brother’s 
collected  works.  On  the  other  hand  I find  in 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


75 


that  collection  a piece  of  execution  which  is  new  to  me, 
performed  on  the  above-mentioned  Howell  after  his 
dismissal : — 

There’s  a Portuguese  person  named  Howell 
Who  lays  on  his  lies  with  a trowel ; 

Should  he  give  over  lying 
’Twill  be  when  he’s  dying, 

For  living  is  lying  with  Howell. 

I have  said  that  the  years  1868-1872  were  critical 
and  fateful  years  in  Rossetti’s  life.  He  had  already 
begun  to  take  chloral  as  a resource  against  sleeplessness, 
and  the  habit  grew  upon  him  with  disastrous  effects. 
His  extreme  perturbation  under  the  “ Fleshly  School  ” 
attack  showed  a mind  already  morbidly  tainted.  A 
few  months  later  he  underwent  a complete  breakdown, 
almost  assuming  the  form  called  in  French  manie  des 
persecutions.  He  harboured  torturing  suspicions  of 
malice  and  treachery  even  against  his  best-tried  friends ; 
and  though  making  for  a while  a fairly  complete  re- 
covery, and  continuing  to  paint  and  write  with  variable 
power,  but  as  busily  as  ever,  for  near  ten  years  more, 
was  never  again  quite  the  man  that  we  had  known. 
I saw  him  relatively  little  during  those  last  years, 
and  had  little  acquaintance  with  the  new  friends  and 
satellites — some  of  them  truly  attached  and  helpful — 
who  gathered  about  him  and  from  among  whom  have 
come  the  fullest  accounts  written  of  him  after  his 
death. 


CHAPTER  V 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

No  greater  contrast  in  character  and  mode  of  life 
could  well  exist  than  between  Rossetti  and  Browning : 
the  one  living  apart  in  a seclusion  that  had  about  it 
truly  something — though  not  so  much  as  has  been 
represented — of  the  morbid  and  mystical ; the  other, 
having  once  determined  to  face  daylight  and  the 
world  again  after  the  great  tragedy  of  his  wife’s  death, 
carrying  out  his  determination  resolutely  and  healthily 
to  the  full.  Probably  there  is  no  instance  on  record 
of  a great  poet  leading  at  once  so  strenuous  a poetical 
and  so  busy  a social  life  as  Browning  during  his  last 
twenty  or  twenty-five  years.  The  contemporary  writer 
' par  excellence  of  social  verse,  Frederick  Locker,  later 
Locker-Lampson,  had  at  one  time  seen  a good  deal 
of  the  world,  but  for  the  most  part  of  a very  distin- 
guished and  selected  world,  and  in  later  life  was 
relatively  a recluse,  continuing  to  carve  and  polish  his 
exquisite  poetical  cameos  at  a distance  from  the 
crowd.  But  Browning,  hardly  ever  pausing  to  let 
the  energies  of  his  intellect  and  imagination  rest 
from  exploration  in  all  manner  of  fields  of  human  inter- 
est remote  or  near,  was  at  the  same  time  spending 
himself  lavishly  in  social  relations  of  the  most  active 

76 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


77 


and  varied  kind.  To  meet  him  during  those  years 
was  for  many  of  us,  though  always  a lively  pleasure, 
not  an  event  but  a matter  of  course,  seeing  that  one 
was  apt  to  meet  him  at  concerts,  theatres,  picture- 
galleries,  dinner-parties,  country  houses,  in  a word 
everywhere.  My  own  acquaintance  with  him  began 
in  the  latest  sixties  or  earliest  seventies  in  a certain 
hospitable,  historic  castle  on  the  Cumberland  border, 
than  which  no  house  is  associated  in  my  mind  with  more 
grateful  and  cordial  memories.  This  was  Naworth, 
near  Brampton  in  Cumberland,  one  of  the  two  family 
seats  of  the  Earls  of  Carlisle,  romantically  placed  on 
the  steep  side  of  a glen  overhanging  a beck  which 
runs  down  to  meet  the  Irthing  near  Lanercost  Abbey. 
It  was  the  country  home  at  that  date  of  George  Howard, 
afterwards  ninth  earl,  and  of  his  wife  Rosalind,  by 
birth  a Stanley  of  Alderley.  No  more  exceptional  or 
attractive  young  couple  gathered  about  them  in  those 
days  a more  varied  company  of  talents  and  distinctions 
whether  in  art,  literature,  or  politics.  George  Howard 
had  married  fresh  from  Cambridge,  where  he  was  a 
couple  of  years  my  senior.  His  ambition  was  to  be  a 
painter,  and  he  worked  sedulously  at  the  art  under 
the  teaching  of  that  fine  austere  craftsman  and  vigor- 
ous, caustically  tongued  personality,  Alphonse  Legros. 

Besides  his  painting  George  Howard  cared  for  nearly 
all  forms  of  culture.  He  had  a range  of  manner  varying 
from  the  most  captivatingly  cordial  and  urbane  to 
the  cynically  sceptical  and  ironic.  He  was  a born 
lover  of  Italy  and  things  Italian.  Nature  had  even 
modified  towards  the  Italian  his  strongly  marked 


78 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


hereditary  Howard  type  of  countenance,  and  in  Tus- 
cany, where  the  features  of  the  people  generally  are 
apt  to  bear  a special  stamp  of  race  and  finish,  I have 
often  enough  observed  to  myself  in  driving  through 
some  provincial  market  town,  “ Why,  here  is  a whole 
population  of  George  Howards.”  His  wife  was  in 
those  early  days  as  keen  in  many  interests  and  as  warm 
in  all  friendliness  as  he,  with  a peculiar  winning  and 
whimsical  charm  of  looks  and  manner  all  her  own  and 
extremely  attaching.  Changes  of  view  and  develop- 
ments of  character  came  to  both  in  later  life,  including 
on  the  lady’s  part  an  extreme  and  all-absorbing 
development  both  of  political  ultra-radicalism  and 
militant  temperance  zeal.  But  for  some  years  from 
the  time  of  which  I speak  their  homes  both  on  the 
Northumberland  border  and  in  London  were  centres 
of  a delightful  hospitality,  and  to  the  opportunities  their 
friendship  afforded  me  my  life  owes  much,  which  it  would 
be  ungrateful  not  to  record.  The  American  sculptor 
and  author  William  Wetmore  Story  was  a fellow-guest 
with  Browning  and  myself  at  Naworth  at  the  time  of 
which  I write.  They  two  had  long  been  intimate  in 
Italy.  Story  was  a man  exuberantly  alive  and  of  talents 
the  readiest  and  most  versatile,  acquitting  himself  with 
an  equally  robust  and  confident  facility  in  monumental 
and  portrait  sculpture  and  in  the  arts  of  prose,  verse, 
and  conversation.  He  was  half  Italianate  in  vivacity 
of  gesture  and  manner,  and  I remember  with  what 
amused  interest  the  rest  of  us  sat  by  and  listened  while 
he  and  Browning  lustily  kept  up  between  them  hour  by 
hour  the  ball  of  anecdote  and  reminiscence  and  repartee. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


79 


Loudness  of  voice  and  a vigorous  geniality  of  bearing 
were  what,  on  the  surface,  chiefly  distinguished  Brown- 
ing from  other  Englishmen  in  social  life  throughout 
these  years.  Needless  to  say,  the  veriest  oaf  could 
not  have  mistaken  them  for  vulgarity.  The  poet’s 
biographer  and  most  confidential  friend,  the  late 
Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr,  used  to  say  that  they  were  origin- 
ally the  mask  of  a real  shyness  and  diffidence  on  first 
confronting,  in  advanced  middle  life,  the  ordeal  of 
mixed  general  society.  I should  rather  have  supposed 
that  they  were  the  natural  symptoms  of  an  inborn 
vital  energy  surpassing  by  fivefold  those  of  other  men. 
Certainly  the  poet’s  shortish  robust  figure,  held  always 
firmly  upright  with  the  powerful  grey-haired  and 
bearded  head  a little  thrown  back,  his  cordial  greetings 
and  vigorous  confidential  and  affectionate  gestures, 
would  have  conveyed  the  impression  of  such  vitality, 
even  had  the  same  impression  not  been  forced  upon 
those  of  us  who  were  readers  by  the  surprising  prodigal- 
ity in  these  years  (I  speak  of  the  early  seventies)  of 
his  work  in  literature.  He  had  but  lately  brought  to 
a conclusion  the  vast  and  varied  dramatic  and  psycho- 
logic complex  of  The  Ring  and  the  Boole , surely  one 
of  the  most  strenuous,  and  as  might  have  been  sup- 
posed fatiguing,  intellectual  feats  ever  achieved  by 
man,  and  instead  of  resting  proceeded  promptly  to 
follow  it  up  by  fresh  volume  after  volume ; breaking 
into  classic  ground  in  a guise  wholly  his  own  with 
Balaustion's  Adventure ; indulging  in  the  queerest 
of  contrasted  freaks  in  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau 
and  Fifine  at  the  Fair ; going  on  with  Red  Cotton 


80 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Night  Cap  Country ; returning  once  more  to  Greek 
themes  and  bidding  us  live  with  the  Athenian  dramatists 
in  Aristophanes's  Apology  ; and  so  on,  with  seldom 
so  much  as  a year  or  two’s  pause  in  the  output.  It 
is  a curious  fact  that  in  spite  of  the  intensity  of  intel- 
lectual and  emotional  effort  to  which  for  the  most 
part  they  bear  witness,  Browning’s  poetical  labours, — 
excepting,  no  doubt,  those  he  was  accustomed  to 
read  aloud  among  his  friends, — were  wont  to  leave 
little  trace  or  echo  in  his  own  memory.  Was,  this 
perhaps  because  of  their  very  rapidity  and  abun- 
dance ? Such  was  at  any  rate  the  case and  I remem- 
ber with  what  amused  gusto  he  related  one  day  how 
a lady  friend  had  been  reading  him  out  certain  verses, 
and  how  he  had  slapped  his  thigh  (a  very  characteristic 
action,  by  the  way)  and  said,  “ By  Jove,  that’s  fine  ” ; 
how  then  she  had  asked  him  who  wrote  them  and  he 
could  not  say ; and  how  surprised  he  was  when  she 
had  told  him  they  were  his  own. 

Browning’s  talk  had  not  much  intellectual  resem- 
blance to  his  poetry.  That  is  to  say,  it  was  not  apt 
to  be  specially  profound  or  subtle  ; still  less  was  it  ever 
entangled  or  obscure.  Probably  the  act  of  speech 
did  not  allow  his  brain  time  to  perform  those  prodigies 
of  activity  by  which  it  was  wont,  when  he  had  the 
pen  in  hand,  to  discover  a thousand  complications  and 
implications  and  side-issues  beneath  the  surface  of 
the  simplest-seeming  matters  ; complications  which 
often  he  could  only  express  by  defying  the  rules  of 
grammar  and  discarding  half  the  auxiliary  parts  of 
speech,  by  stitching  clause  on  to  clause  and  packing 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


81 


parenthesis  within  parenthesis,  till  the  drift  of  his 
sentences  became  dark  and  their  conclusion  undiscover- 
able.  (The  mere  act  of  writing  seemed  to  have  a 
peculiar  effect  on  him,  for  I have  known  him  manage 
to  be  obscure  even  in  a telegram.)  Rather  his  style 
in  talk  was  straightforward,  plain,  emphatic,  heartily 
and  agreeably  voluble,  ranging  easily  from  deep  earnest 
to  jolly  jest,  rich  and  varied  in  matter  but  avoiding 
rather  than  courting  the  abstruse  whether  in  specula- 
tion or  controversy,  and  often  condescending  freely  to 
ordinary  human  gossip  on  a level  with  the  rest  of 
us.  Its  general  tone  was  genially  kind,  encouraging 
and  fortifying  ; but  no  one  was  more  promptly  moved 
to  indignation,  indignation  to  which  he  never  hesi- 
tated to  give  effect,  by  any  tale  or  instance  of  cruelty 
or  calumny  or  injustice : nor  could  any  one  be  more 
tenderly  or  chivalrously  sympathetic  with  the  victim 
of  such  offences.  Not  to  quote  instances  known  to 
me  of  a more  private  and  personal  kind,  I remember 
his  strong  and  re-iterated  expressions  of  anger  against 
Froude  for  having,  as  he  thought,  misrepresented  the 
character  of  Carlyle.  Instead  of  being  the  hard  man 
figured  in  Froude’s  pages — inconsiderate  in  relations 
with  his  wife,  unkind,  in  one  instance  at  least,  in  his 
treatment  of  a horse — Carlyle,  maintained  Browning, 
was  the  most  intensely,  sensitively  tender-hearted  of 
men  : and  he  went  on  to  tell  how,  as  he  walked  one  day 
in  Chelsea  with  Carlyle’s  arm  in  his,  a butcher-boy  drove 
by  savagely  flogging  his  horse  and  he  felt  the  sage  shake 
from  head  to  foot  in  a spasm  of  righteous  indignation. 

Browning,  living  in  the  world  the  everyday  life  he 


82 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


did,  refused  with  perfect  unaffectedness  to  accept 
incense  or  to  assume  poses  or  privileges  as  a poet. 
At  the  same  time  the  poet  was  never  far  to  seek  in 
him,  and  with  equal  unaffectedness  would  come  to 
the  front  readily  on  occasion.  If  the  talk  ran  that  way 
he  would  quote  passages  from  the  English  poets, 
oftenest  relatively  unknown  passages,  with  powerful 
effect ; for  his  failure  of  memory  in  regard  to  his  own 
works  by  no  means  extended  itself  to  those  of  others. 
His  memory  was  well  stored  with  all  kinds  of  eccentric 
matter,  and  among  the  earlier  English  poets  with 
examples  of  those  whose  work  most  resembled  his 
own  by  quaintness  and  toughness  of  thought.  Thus 
I recollect  his  coming  out  once  with  a long,  crabbedly 
fine  screed  from  John  Donne,  and  declaring  he  had  not 
read  nor  called  it  to  mind  for  thirty  years.  It  was  the 
screed  in  which  Donne,  who  had  written  defying  and 
belittling  the  power  of  death,  now,  death  having  carried 
off  a virtuous  and  excellent  lady  of  his  acquaintance, 
recants  and  declares — 

Spiritual  treason,  atheism  ’tis  to  say 
That  any  can  thy  summons  disobey. 

Th’  earth’s  face  is  but  thy  table  ; there  are  set 
Plants,  cattle,  men,  dishes  for  death  to  eat. 

In  a rude  hunger  now  he  millions  draws 
Into  his  bloody,  or  plaguy,  or  starved  jaws. 

Now  wantonly  he  spoils,  and  eats  us  not, 

But  breaks  off  friends,  and  lets  us  piecemeal  rot. 

Nor  will  this  earth  serve  him  ; he  sinks  the  deep 
Where  harmless  fish  monastic  silence  keep  ; 

Who — were  Death  dead — by  roes  of  living  sand 
Might  sponge  that  element,  and  make  it  land. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


83 


I remember  also  particularly  the  rich  effect  with 
which,  though  only  for  my  private  ear,  he  recited 
one  evening,  on  a sofa  in  a corner  after  a dinner  party, 
the  thundering  final  stanzas  from  the  Song  of  David 
of  Christopher  Smart : — 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career  ; 

Glorious  th’  assembed  fires  appear ; 

Glorious  the  comet’s  train  : 

Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm  ; 

Glorious  th’  Almighty’s  stretched-out  arm ; 

Glorious  th’  enraptured  main  : 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  astream  ; 

Glorious  the  song,  when  God’s  the  theme ; 

Glorious  the  thunder’s  roar  : 

Glorious  hosanna  from  the  den  ; 

Glorious  the  catholic  amen  ; 

Glorious  the  martyr’s  gore. 

This  unfortunate  eighteenth-century  poet,  stale  and 
flat  except  for  that  one  inspired  hour  during  his 
insanity  when  he  became  equal  to  the  greatest,  was 
at  that  date  unknown  to  most  of  us,  but  had  always 
a special  interest  for  Browning,  and  is  the  subject  of 
one  of  the  Parleyings  in  his  almost  latest  volume  of 
verse. 

When  asked  to  read  poetry  of  his  own  in  any  house 
or  in  any  company  where  he  could  count  on  intelligent 
sympathy,  Browning  was  always  ready  to  do  so.  His 
utterance  was  flexible  and  dramatic,  very  different 
from  that  of  Tennyson  or  Rossetti  and  such  other 
poets  as  have  preferred  in  reading  their  own  verses 
to  adopt  and  sustain  one  key  or  another  of  chanting 


84 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


monotone.  His  voice,  virile  above  all  things,  was 
strong  and  inclining  to  the  strident ; but  in  passages 
which  called  for  it  had  accents  of  the  most  moving 
tenderness.  One  reading  in  especial  which  I remember 
as  bringing  out  such  tenderness  was  that  of  the  Pompilia 
section  of  The  Ring  and  the  Book , at  certain  points  in 
which  he  could  control  neither  his  voice  nor  his  tears, 
and  had  nearly  all  his  audience  in  tears  with  him. 
Another  reading  almost  equally  moving  was  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto ; which  in  one  case  he  followed  up  by  way 
of  contrast  with  the  long  tramping  measures,  duly 
stressed  by  his  foot  stamping  vigorously  in  time,  of 
his  Greek  battle-poem,  Echetlos.  Neither  were  such 
readings  the  only  occasions  when  I have  known  this 
strong  man  weep.  One  of  my  vividest  recollections 
is  of  an  evening  when  he  made  one  of  a party  of  three 
to  see  the  great  Italian  tragedian  Salvini  play  King 
Lear.  Every  one  had  seen  Salvini  play  Othello,  his 
most  usual  Shakespearean  part ; but  this  performance 
of  Lear  was  new  to  us  all.  It  turned  out  to  be  over- 
whelming, an  absolute,  ideal  incarnation  of  ruined 
age  and  outcast  greatness  and  shattered  reason  and 
unchilded  fatherhood  and  fallen  majesty  in  despair. 
Browning  sat  there  between  us,  his  face  set  firm  and 
white  like  marble,  but  before  the  end  tears  were  coursing 
down  it  quite  unchecked.  He  seemed  unconscious 
of  them,  and  as  we  came  out  could  only  murmur  with 
a kind  of  awe,  “It  makes  one  wonder  which  is  the 
greater,  the  poet  or  the  actor.” 

Shall  I by  way  of  contrast  allow  myself  to  recall 
another  scene  which  is  scarce  less  freshly  present  to 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


85 


me,  and  which  illustrates  the  opposite  scale  of  the 
poet’s  being,  his  partiality  for  any  kind  of  fun  or 
foolery  of  which  the  notion  tickled  him  ? In  the 
later  seventies  he  was  several  times  a visitor  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge ; usually  as  the  guest  of  the 
Master,  Dr.  Montagu  Butler,  once,  at  least,  as  mine.  I 
asked  a party  of  undergraduates  to  meet  him  at  break- 
fast, and  he  charmed  them  by  his  geniality  and  rich 
talk,  some  of  it  as  serious  and  high-pitched  as  the 
most  earnest  of  his  admirers  could  desire.  By-and- 
by  there  came  up  the  subject  of  Christian  names  and 
their  abbreviations,  and  Browning  began  telling  us 
how  there  once  came  three  brothers  to  be  matricul  ted 
together  at  an  American  University.  The  registrar 
asked  the  first  brother  his  name.  “ Sam,”  answered 
the  lad.  “ That  is  no  name,”  declared  the  don 
with  severity,  “ give  me  your  full  name  properly.” 
“ Samuel,  sir,”  came  the  reply.  To  a like  question 
the  next  brother  answered  “ My  name  is  Lem,  sir.” 
“Nonsense,”  cried  the  registrar,  this  time  angrily; 
“ say  your  real  name  in  full.”  “ Lemuel,  sir,”  faltered 
the  culprit.  The  third  brother,  being  roughly  asked 
the  same  question,  lost  his  head  and  twittered : 
“ Jimuel,  sir.”  I am  sure  the  story  ought  to  end  here, 
but  in  sheer  high  spirits,  and  to  keep  up  the  laugh 
among  the  lads  round  the  table,  the  poet  went  on  to 
add  a climax.  The  official,  he  said,  thereupon  broke 
into  fury,  declared  the  answers  had  been  a plot  to 
insult  him,  and  insisted  on  knowing  which  of  the 
brothers  had  set  the  others  on  ; whereat  they  gasped 
in  chorus,  each  pointing  tremblingly  at  the  other. 


86 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


44  Mmuel,  sir.”  Is  the  little  tale,  I wonder,  one  fresh 
to  American  readers,  or  stale  ? If  stale,  I hope  that, 
considering  from  whose  mouth  I heard  it,  they  will 
pardon  me  for  here  repeating  it. 

In  thinking  of  this  poet  as  he  lived  and  moved, 
there  is  one  quality  he  had  which  thrusts  itself  inevit- 
ably first  upon  one’s  mind,  and  that  is  cordiality. 
Cordial  in  his  thoughts  and  feelings — unless  he  had 
the  most  cogent  grounds  to  the  contrary — cordial 
in  his  ways  and  words,  that  is  what  he  was  above  all 
things,  and  with  a cordiality  open  and  undisguised, 
even  demonstrative  beyond  what  is  usual  in  the  inter- 
course of  Englishmen,  but  at  the  same  time  free  from 
any  possible  suspicion  of  insincerity.  The  same  quality 
was  conspicuous  in  his  correspondence.  I have  by 
me  dozens  of  letters  or  rather  notes  from  him,  proposals 
for  appointments  or  answers  to  invitations,  and  in 
them  all  this  is  the  one  predominant  tone.  Among 
the  rest  I find  two  or  three  which  are  real,  though 
brief  enough,  letters,  and  being  unprinted  may  perhaps 
interest  the  reader.  When  his  translation  of  the 
Agamemnon  of  ^Eschylus  appeared  in  1877, 1 protested, 
publicly  if  I remember  aright  and  at  any  rate  in  private, 
against  what  I held  to  be  its  uncouthly,  impermissibly, 
un-Englishly  strained  and  crabbed  literalness.  4 4 My 
dear  Colvin,”  answers  the  poet,  44  I am  probably 
more  of  your  mind  than  you  suppose,  about  the  sort 
of  translation  I should  like  for  myself  and  for  you: 
but  I only  undertook  to  44  transcribe  ” — esteeming  it 
sufficient  success  if  I put  anybody  ignorant  of  Greek 
in  something  like  the  position  of  one  acquainted  with  it. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


87 


This  latter  person  recognizes  under  a given  word  the 
corresponding  modern  sense  ; but  he  sees  the — perhaps 
grotesque — word  first , and  supplies  the  elucidation 
himself : so  I expect  an  intelligent  reader  to  do, 
because  it  seems  part  of  my  business  to  instruct  him 
that,  for  instance,  the  Greeks  called  TrpaTrtSe?  what 
we  call  4 understanding.’  But  it  is  ungracious  work 
and  I have  done  with  it.”  A similar  defence  of  his 
treatment  is  worked  out  more  fully  in  the  preface ; 
but  looking  back  to-day  at  the  matter  of  our  discussion, 
I find  that  in  point  of  fact  to  make  head  or  tail  of 
Browning’s  version  I have  to  help  myself  by  the 
Greek  text  as  being  much  the  more  perspicuous  of 
the  two,  and  am  more  than  ever  convinced  that,  for 
me  at  all  events,  just  as  Rossetti’s  Early  Italian  Poets 
is  the  best  of  all  verse  translations,  Browning’s  Agamem- 
non is  the  worst  and  most  perverse.  Fortunately  he 
kept  to  his  purpose  declared  in  the  words  last  quoted, 
and  printed  no  more  translations  from  the  Greek. 

Concerning  the  next  letter,  I hardly  know  what 
can  have  been  the  44  parcel  ” to  which  it  refers,  unless 
it  were  the  printed  proofs  of  some  lectures  which  I 
had  lately  given  in  London,  and  which  the  poet  had 
done  me  the  honour  to  attend,  on  the  Amazons, 
especially  the  story  of  Achilles  and  Penthesilea,  as 
figured  in  Greek  literature  and  art.  The  couplet 
quoted  is  of  course  from  Hudibras  : — 

“ 19,  Warwick  Crescent,  W. 

“April  23,  ’81. 

“My  dear  Colvin, — 

“ I blame  myself  seriously  for  not  having  apprised  you  at  once 
that  your  parcel  had  arrived  duly  and  safely  ; I hardly  know, 


88 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


indeed,  how  I omitted  doing  so  : your  letter,  which  was  followed 
immediately  by  the  papers  it  promised, — and  the  notion  that 
yourself  would  not  be  long  behind — these,  I suppose,  made  me 
forgetful  of  a plain  duty, — which  I shall  not  neglect  on  any  future 
occasion.  Thank  you  for  all  favours,  including  the  pardon  which 
I hope  this  apology  will  procure. 

“ I find  that  my  assiduity  in  attending  your  Lectures  has  induced 
somebody  to  believe  the  seed  sown  must  needs  bear  fruit : and 
so  I figure  in  the  American  Journals  as  ‘ having  a poem  in  the 
press  on  the  subject  of  Achilles  and  Penthesilea.’  There  are  less 
suggestive  subjects, — and  I wish  that  it  could  be  truly  said  of  me 
— as  by  Butler  of  his  heroine — 

‘ He  laid  about  their  heads  as  busily 
As  tlT  Amazonian  Dame  Penthesily  * 

— if  I quote  correctly — which  I doubt.  With  no  doubt  at  all,  my 
dear  Colvin,  I am  ever 

“ Yours  cordially, 

“ Robert  Browning.” 

The  last,  although  modesty  should  perhaps  prevent 
my  printing  it,  is  the  most  interesting,  as  showing 
what  kind  help  I had  from  the  master  in  preparing 
my  volume  on  Walter  Savage  Landor  for  the  English 
Men  of  Letters  series,  and  as  summing  up  the  character 
of  his  old  friend  for  good  and  all  in  a single  salvo  of 
adjectives : — 

“ 19,  Warwick  Crescent,  W. 

“ July  12,  ’81. 

“My  dear  Colvin, — 

“ The  remaining  ‘ proofs  ’ were  duly  sent  me — and  I was  able 
to  observe  how  completely  you  had  set  the  insignificant  matters 
right  which  were  not  altogether  so  before — in  the  last  part,  I mean. 
I have  not  received  the  Book  itself  and  though  I should  be  very 
grateful  for  it,  and  all  connected  with  it,  I hardly  hoped  to  see  my 
dear  provoking  admirable  unwise  learned  childish  friend  put  in 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


89 


just  the  light  which  lets  all  the  facets  of  the  jewel  do  justice  to  the 
diamond  they  diversify.  I have  heard  only  one  opinion  of  the 
exceeding  merit  of  the  work.  I say  this,  to  dispense  you  from  any 
suspicion  that  you  are  burthened  with  anything  like  “ gratitude  ” 
to  me — who  am  the  grateful  person  under  the  circumstances — 
such  duties  as  mine  ought  to  be  ordinary  with  ‘ friends  and  fellow 
students/ 

“You  must  be  having  wonderful  weather  where  you  are  : here 
the  heat  and  glare  (not  to  blaspheme)  are  extraordinary. 

“ Ever  truly  yours, 

“ Robert  Browning.” 

Any  last  word  in  memory  of  this  great  poet  and 
many-sided,  intensely  human  spirit  should  touch  on 
two  of  his  most  conspicuous  and  lovable  virtues,  which 
I had  ample  opportunity  of  observing ; his  admirable 
constancy  to  old  friends  and  assiduous  attention  to 
them  in  their  declining  years,  as  evidenced,  for  instance, 
by  his  relations  with  Mrs.  Procter,  the  cynically  witty, 
long-enduring,  old-age-defying  widow  of  the  poet 
Barry  Cornwall ; and  his  intense  paternal  devotion  to 
his  only  son.  When  this  adored  “ Pen  ” — for  so  by 
his  pet  name  he  was  always  called — this  child  of  two 
mutually  devoted  parents  of  genius,  had  grown  to 
manhood  and  began  to  show  a certain  talent,  or  at 
least  a certain  facility,  in  the  twin  arts  of  sculpture 
and  painting,  the  eager,  deferential  solicitude  with 
which  his  famous  father  would  seek  the  opinions  on 
the  young  man’s  work  of  those  who  were  supposed  to 
have  some  intelligence  of  such  matters  was  a thing 
infinitely,  and  considering  the  mediocrity  of  the  result, 
almost  tragically,  touching. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PRIORY  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 

From  the  later  sixties  down  to  the  mid  seventies 
of  the  last  century,  there  were  for  some  of  us  in  London 
two  specially  attractive  resorts  for  Sunday  afternoons. 
These  were  The  Priory  and  Little  Holland  House. 
The  kinds  of  interest  the  two  houses  severally  offered 
differed  greatly,  the  only  point  in  common  between 
them  being  that  both  were  homes  of  genius.  The 
Priory  was  a commonplace  detached  villa  in  a fair- 
sized garden  plot  in  St.  John’s  Wood,  the  home  of 
George  Eliot  and  G.  H.  Lewes.  Little  Holland  House 
in  Kensington,  a rambling  old-fashioned  abode  in  a 
beautiful  well-timbered  garden,  had  originally  been  a 
dower-house  adjunct  to  and  dependent  on  the  great 
Holland  House  and  its  park  ; in  the  years  of  which  I 
speak  it  was  the  joint  home  of  the  painter  George 
Frederic  Watts  and  the  old  friends,  the  Thoby 
Prinseps,  with  whom  he  was  domesticated. 

The  Priory 

The  Sunday  afternoon  receptions  at  The  Priory  were 
not  always  quite  free  from  stiffness,  the  presiding 
genius  allowing  herself — so  at  least  some  of  us  thought 
— to  be  treated  a little  too  markedly  and  formally  as 
such.  Perhaps,  however,  the  secret  was  that  she  by 
nature  lacked  the  lightness  of  human  touch  by  which 

90 


THE  PRIORY  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 


91 


a hostess  can  diffuse  among  a mixed  company  of  guests 
an  atmosphere  of  social  ease.  Humour  in  abundance 
she  had,  but  not  of  the  light,  glancing  kind  : it  was  a 
rich,  deliberate  humour  springing  from  deep  sources  and 
corresponding  with  the  general  depth  and  power  of  her 
being.  The  signs  of  such  depth  and  power  were 
strongly  impressed  upon  her  countenance.  I have 
known  scarce  any  one  in  life  whose  looks  in  their  own 
way  more  strongly  drew  and  held  one.  She  had  of 
course  no  regular  beauty  (who  was  it  that  asked  the 
question,  “ Have  you  seen  a horse,  sir  ? Then  you 
have  seen  George  Eliot  ” ?) : but  the  expression  of 
her  long,  strong,  deeply  ploughed  features,  was  one 
not  only  of  habitual  brooding  thought  and  intellectual 
travail  but  of  intense  and  yearning  human  sympathy 
and  tenderness.  There  could  hardly  be  a truer  record 
of  her  looks  than  that  conveyed  in  the  well-known  etch- 
ing by  Raj  on  after  the  life-sized  drawing  by  F.  W. 
Burton.  If  it  had  been  her  nature  to  seek  equality 
of  regard  and  companionship  from  those  visitors  who 
came  about  her,  Lewes,  I think,  would  have  hardly 
made  it  possible.  His  own  attitude  was  always  that 
of  the  tenderest,  most  solicitous  adoration ; and 
adoration,  homage,  was  what  he  seemed  to  expect  for 
her  from  all  who  came  about  them.  He  never  encour- 
aged the  conversation  among  the  Sunday  guests  in  the 
room  to  become  equal  or  general,  or  allowed  one  of 
them  to  absorb  her  attention  for  very  long,  but  would 
bring  up  one  after  another  to  have  his  or  her  share  of 
it  in  turn,  so  that  if  any  of  us  began  to  feel  that  talk 
with  her  was  taking  an  easier  and  closer  turn  than  usual, 


92 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  next  thing  was  that  it  was  sure  to  be  interrupted. 
I recall  the  beginnings  of  several  conversations  which 
were  thus  broken  before  I had  succeeded  in  getting 
more  from  her  than  sympathetic  enquiries  about  my 
own  work  and  studies,  or  perhaps  about  the  places  I 
had  last  been  visiting  in  France  or  Italy.  Naturally 
I valued  such  enquiries,  but  was  not  at  all  seeking 
them  : what  I wanted  was  not  to  be  drawn  out  myself 
but  to  draw  out  my  hostess  and  feel  her  powers  playing 
— the  spell  of  her  mind  and  character  acting — upon  me 
and  upon  the  company  generally. 

Lewes,  when  he  had  cut  into  the  talk  and  carried 
one  off  as  I have  said,  would  entertain  one  genially 
and  kindly  in  his  own  way  in  another  part  of  the  room, 
among  some  group  of  guests  either  fresh  from  or  await- 
ing similar  treatment.  If  George  Eliot’s  countenance 
was  of  the  equine  type,  his  was  not  less  distinctly  of  the 
simian,  but  having  its  ugliness  redeemed  by  winning 
smiles  both  of  humour  and  affection.  Besides  enter- 
taining the  day’s  guests,  or  helping  them  to  entertain 
each  other,  in  groups,  Lewes  liked  sometimes  to  get 
a few  minutes’  chat  apart  with  a single  one  coming 
or  going ; but  the  subject  was  almost  always  con- 
nected in  some  way  with  George  Eliot’s  work  and  fame. 
During  the  serial  publication  of  Middlemarch  I parti- 
cularly remember  his  taking  me  apart  one  day  as  I 
came  in,  and  holding  me  by  the  button  as  he  announced 
to  me  in  confidence  concerning  one  of  its  chief  charac- 
ters, “ Celia  is  going  to  have  a baby  ! ” This  with  an 
air  at  once  gratified  and  mysterious,  like  that  of  some 
female  gossip  of  a young  bride  in  real  life. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LITTLE  HOLLAND  HOUSE  AND  G.  F.  WATTS 

At  Little  Holland  House,  where  Watts  lived  during 
these  same  years,  the  atmosphere,  although  an  atmo- 
sphere of  genius,  was  of  a totally  different  kind.  The 
Thoby  Prinseps,  his  permanent  hosts,  or  rather  house- 
mates, were  people  of  marked  characters  and  inter- 
esting associations  of  their  own.  Prinsep,  by  this 
time  advanced  in  years,  had  been  a distinguished  Indian 
civil  servant  and  one  of  the  earliest  members  of  the 
new  Indian  Council  created  after  the  mutiny,  when 
the  government  of  the  dependency  was  taken  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  old  East  India  Company.  He  was 
a man  of  attractive  and  imposing  presence  even  after 
infirmity  had  compelled  him  to  use  a wheeled-chair 
for  movement  in  his  garden  and  deafness  had  made 
talk  with  him  difficult.  His  wife  was  one  of  the  seven 
daughters  of  James  Pattle  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service, 
all  remarkable  women  and  several  of  them  famous  in 
their  day.  The  most  beautiful  of  the  sisters  was 
Virginia,  Countess  Somers,  The  most  original  in  gift 
and  achievement  was  Julia,  Mrs.  Cameron.  A close 
and  hearty  friend  of  half  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  her  time,  she  had  in  what  were  relatively  the  early 
days  of  photography  made  for  the  purposes  of  por- 

93 


94 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


traiture  almost  an  original  art  of  it,  such  were  the 
personal  power  and  such  the  devices  of  lighting  and 
focusing  by  which  she  imposed  upon  her  sitters  the 
characters  and  aspects  she  divined  as  most  vitally  and 
significantly  theirs.  With  her  untidy  wisps  of  grizzling 
hair  and  her  fingers  stained  brown  with  photographic 
chemicals,  this  lady  presented  nothing  very  attractive 
to  the  eye,  but  her  resources  of  mind  and  character  made 
themselves  felt  not  less  strikingly  in  her  talk  than  in 
her  work.  Without  the  originality  of  Mrs.  Cameron 
or  the  beauty  of  Lady  Somers  and  some  of  the  other 
sisters  (one  of  whom  was  by  marriage  an  aunt  of  my 
own),  Mrs.  Prinsep  possessed  faculties  as  personal 
and  notable  as  any  of  them.  Circumstance  and 
opportunity  led  her  to  employ  the  genial  richness  and 
heartiness  of  her  nature  chiefly  in  playing  the  part 
of  hostess.  For  some  years  before  I was  grown  up 
and  going  about  in  the  world,  the  Sunday  afternoon 
gatherings  at  Little  Holland  House  had  already  become 
a feature  in  London  life.  Not  only  artists,  but  men 
of  letters,  statesmen,  politicians,  travellers,  were  all 
to  be  met  there,  and  all  in  the  temper  to  enjoy  and 
admire : no  atmosphere  could  be  more  unlike  that  of 
one  of  the  season’s  outdoor  or  indoor  crushes,  at  which 
a crowd  assembles  to  jostle  and  swelter  as  a matter 
of  fashion  or  social  obligation. 

It  was  understood  that  the  main  attraction  at  these 
receptions,  over  and  above  the  half  rural  pleasantness 
of  the  scene  and  the  hospitality  of  the  atmosphere, 
was  the  fame  and  personality  of  the  great  artist  Watts. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a note  to  the  social  credit 


LITTLE  HOLLAND  HOUSE  AND  G.  F.  WATTS  95 


of  that  day  that  a man  of  Watts’s  undistinguished 
origin,  (his  father  had  been  an  unsuccessful  musical 
instrument-maker,)  and  of  his  extreme  and  perfectly 
unaffected  modesty  and  simplicity  of  character,  should 
have  been  honoured  and  sought  after  as  he  was.  It 
is  true  that  both  in  looks  and  bearing  he  had  a natural 
distinction  which  must  always  and  in  any  company 
have  been  noticeable.  Middle-sized  and  slightly 
stooping,  he  had  finely  chiselled  features  and  brown 
eyes  of  a fine  pensive  expression,  with  hair  and  beard 
which  his  friends  saw  slowly  changing  through  the  years 
from  rich  brown  to  a grey  that  was  almost  white. 
There  was  about  him  a total  lack  of,  and  indeed 
incapacity  for,  any  manner  of  pose  or  pretension.  By 
lack  of  pretension  must  by  no  means  be  understood  lack 
of  ambition.  His  ambition,  which  was  not  at  all  for 
himself  but  singly  and  entirely  for  his  art,  was  indeed 
a very  part  of  his  simplicity.  Of  the  functions  of  art 
in  the  life  of  a community  no  man  has  ever  held  a more 
exalted  conception.  He  was  continually  expending 
his  energies  and  his  influence,  sometimes  successfully, 
more  often  in  vain,  in  the  endeavour  to  be  allowed  to 
decorate  the  wall-spaces  of  public  buildings  with  monu- 
mental compositions  of  high  moral,  historical,  or  allegor- 
ical significance.  Alike  by  natural  instinct  and  by 
strenuous  technical  study  and  experiment  he  was 
qualified,  as  very  few  artists  in  England  have  been, 
as  a painter  on  a monumental  scale  or  decorator  of 
great  wall-spaces.  And  fortunate  it  was  that  he  was 
so  qualified,  seeing  that  the  interest  paramount  in  his 
own  mind  in  undertaking  such  work  was  never  the 


96 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


truly  and  singly  artistic,  it  was  always  the  moral  and 
didactic  interest.  But  he  could  not  help  being  a fine 
designer  and  born  decorator,  as  it  were  in  spite  of  him- 
self. His  passion  for  allegoric  and  didactic  painting 
made  him  unjust  to  and  even  contemptuous  of  his 
own  powers  in  that  other  branch  of  art — portraiture 
to  wit — by  which  he  was  compelled  to  live.  Fine 
and  dignified  as  are  the  few  monumental  schemes 
which  he  was  given  opportunity  to  carry  out,  beauti- 
ful in  the  qualities  of  painting  proper  as  are  many  of 
his  moral  and  allegoric  compositions  on  a smaller  scale, 
posterity  is  unlikely  to  regret  that  the  conditions  of  the 
time  made  portrait-painting  his  chief  resource  and 
means  of  livelihood.  There  was  plenty  of  vulgarity 
in  the  Victorian  age,  but  in  Watts’s  record  of  that  age 
there  is  no  breath  or  taint  or  shadow  of  it.  This  is 
not  due  to  any  fudging  or  insincerity  in  the  artist,  but 
partly  to  the  fact  that  among  his  sitters  were  few 
save  the  very  pick  of  contemporary  men  and  women  ; 
partly  to  those  qualities  in  his  own  eye  and  hand  which 
could  not  but  discern  and  instinctively  reproduce 
whatever  in  the  types  and  characters  of  nineteenth- 
century  England  was  akin  to  those  of  the  sixteenth- 
century  Venice  which  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  his 
spiritual  birth-place. 

It  was  a sad  and  heartfelt  loss  to  many  of  us  when 
about  1875,  the  painter  being  then  a little  short  of  his 
sixty-eighth  year,  the  loved  and  familiar  scene  of  his 
activity  was  broken  up.  The  ground  on  which  the  old 
Little  Holland  House  and  its  outbuildings  and  gardens 
had  stood  was  sold,  and  Watts  had  to  create  a new 


LITTLE  HOLLAND  HOUSE  AND  G.  F.  WATTS  97 


home  for  himself.  After  an  interval  spent  chiefly  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  he  built,  as  is  well  known,  a new 
Little  Holland  House  in  Melbury  Road  on  a corner  of 
the  ground  which  had  been  occupied  by  the  old.  But 
this  was  a Little  Holland  House,  so  far  as  its  external 
aspects  and  surroundings  were  concerned,  only  in 
name.  The  fine  genius  who  dwelt  in  it  was  of  course 
quite  unchanged : his  beautiful  simplicities  of  character 
did  but  increase  with  age,  his  high  ambitions  both  in 
decorative  painting  and  monumental  sculpture  con- 
tinued with  increase  rather  than  abatement : by  and  by 
there  came  into  his  life  the  new  happiness  of  a wife 
who  proved  faultlessly  tactful  in  sympathy  and  wise 
in  tendence  ; and  those  of  us  who  had  loved  and 
honoured  the  master  in  those  earlier  years  had  the  joy 
of  seeing  him  live  on  to  a patriarchal  age  with  increase 
rather  than  diminution  of  universal  regard.  In  these 
later  years  he  spent  the  winters,  and  towards  the  end 
the  whole  of  his  time,  at  anew  home,  44  Limnerslease,” 
which  he  had  built  for  himself  on  the  Hog’s  Back,  near 
Guildford,  and  where  a pick  of  his  works  is  now  set  out 
permanently  on  public  exhibition.  But  for  the  pur- 
pose of  these  present  reminiscences  it  is  naturally  the 
earlier  years,  and  the  special  romance  and  charm 
and  impressiveness  of  the  earlier,  now  long  van- 
ished surroundings,  that  rise  up  and  insist  on  being 
recalled,  however  briefly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Readers  and  lovers  of  Stevenson,  in  my  experience, 
are  generally  to  be  divided  into  two  sorts  or  classes. 
One  sort  care  most  for  his  stories,  delighting  in  the 
humorous  or  tragic  vitality  of  his  characters  and  the 
thrill  of  the  situations  in  which  he  puts  them.  The 
other  sort  are  more  interested  in  the  man  himself,  and 
prefer  the  essays  and  letters,  the  books  of  travel  and 
reminiscence  in  which  he  takes  you  into  his  own 
company  and  confidence.  Readers  of  this  latter  class 
would  rather  paddle  with  Stevenson  in  his  canoe  down 
the  Sambre  and  Oise,  look  out  with  him  from  the  tower 
of  Noyon  Cathedral,  or  join  in  his  farewell  greetings  to 
the  three  Graces  of  Origny — they  would  rather  sleep 
under  the  stars  with  him  and  the  she-ass  Modestine 
in  the  woods  of  Gevaudan,  or  hear  him  moralize  on 
the  life  of  the  Trappist  monks  in  the  convent  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Snows — than  they  would  crouch  in  the 
apple-barrel  with  Jim  Hawkins  on  board  the  Hispaniola 
and  overhear  the  plotting  of  the  mutineers,  or  lie  sick 
with  David  Balfour  in  the  house  of  Robin  Oig  while 
the  host  and  Alan  Breck  challenge  each  other  to  their 
match  upon  the  pipes.  It  pleases  such  readers  better 

98 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


99 


to  learn  from  Stevenson  in  the  first  person  how  his 
Brownies,  as  he  calls  them,  furnished  to  him  in  dreams 
the  most  shudderful  incidents  in  the  parable  of  Jekyll 
and  Hyde  than  to  read  these  incidents  themselves  in 
the  pages  of  the  book.  The  fortunes  of  Prince  Otto 
and  Seraphina  and  Gondremark  and  Countess  von 
Rosen  interest  them,  it  may  be,  less  in  the  tale  itself 
than  in  the  letters  in  which  Stevenson  tells  his  corres- 
pondents of  his  delighted  toil  over  the  tale  and  of  the 
high  hopes  that  he  has  built  upon  it.  They  may  be 
less  moved — though  that  I find  it  hard  to  conceive — 
by  the  scene  of  the  torn  hymn-book  and  the  birth  of 
passion  between  Archie  Weir  and  Kirstie  Eliot  in  the 
little  Pentland  church  than  by  the  note  of  acute 
personal  emotion  which  a thought  of  the  same 
church  arouses  in  Stevenson  writing  to  a friend 
from  exile. 

My  own  view  is  that  both  sides  of  him — the  creative 
artist  and  the  human  personality — are  interesting  and 
admirable  alike.  But  what  I am  now  about  to  write 
will  concern  the  man  himself  rather  than  any  phase 
of  his  work.  I shall  dip  a random  bucket  into  the  well 
of  memory,  and  try  whether  the  yield,  from  our  four- 
teen years  of  close  intimacy,  may  be  such  as  to  supple- 
ment and  complete  to  any  purpose  the  image  which 
readers  may  otherwise  have  formed  of  him.  And 
first,  to  wipe  away  some  false  impressions  which  seem 
to  be  current : — I lately  found  one  writer,  because 
Stevenson  was  thin,  speaking  of  him  as  having  been 
a “ shadowy  ” figure  ; another,  because  he  was  an 
invalid,  describing  him  as  “ anaemic,”  and  a third  as 


/ 


100 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


4 4 thin-blooded.”  Shadowy  ! he  was  indeed  all  his 
life  a bag  of  bones,  a very  lath  for  leanness ; as  lean 
as  Shakespeare’s  Master  Slender,  or  let  us  say  as 
Don  Quixote.  Nevertheless  when  he  was  in  the  room 
it  was  the  other  people,  and  not  he,  who  seemed  the 
shadows.  The  most  robust  of  ordinary  men  seemed 
to  turn  dim  and  null  in  presence  of  the  vitality  that 
glowed  in  the  steadfast,  penetrating  fire  of  the  lean 
man’s  eyes,  the  rich,  compelling  charm  of  his  smile, 
the  lissom  swiftness  of  his  movements  and  lively 
expressiveness  of  his  gestures,  above  all  in  the  irresist- 
ible sympathetic  play  and  abundance  of  his  talk. 
Anaemic  ! thin-blooded  ! the  main  physical  fact  about 
him,  according  to  those  of  his  doctors  whom  I have 
questioned,  was  that  his  heart  was  too  big  and  its 
blood  supply  too  full  for  his  body.  There  was  failure  of 
nutrition,  in  the  sense  that  he  could  never  make  flesh  ; 
there  was  weakness  of  the  throat  and  lungs,  weakness 
above  all  of  the  arteries,  never  of  the  heart  itself ; 
nor  did  his  looks,  even  in  mortal  illness  and  exhaustion, 
ever  give  the  impression  of  bloodlessness.  More  than 
one  of  his  early  friends,  in  describing  him  as  habitually 
pale,  have  let  their  memory  be  betrayed  by  knowledge 
of  what  might  have  been  expected  in  one  so  frail  in 
health.  To  add,  as  some  have  done,  that  his  hair  was 
black  is  to  misdescribe  him  still  farther.  As  a matter 
of  fact  his  face,  forehead  and  all,  was  throughout  the 
years  when  I knew  him  of  an  even,  rather  high,  colour 
varying  little  whether  he  was  ill  or  well ; and 
his  hair,  of  a lightish  brown  in  youth,  although  the 
brown  grew  darker  with  years,  and  darker  still,  I 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


101 


believe,  in  the  tropics,  can  never  have  approached 
black. 

If  you  want  to  realize  the  kind  of  effect  he  made,  at 
least  in  the  early  years  when  I knew  him  best,  imagine 
this  attenuated  but  extraordinarily  vivid  and  vital 
presence,  with  something  about  it  that  at  first  struck 
you  as  freakish,  rare,  fantastic,  a touch  of  the  elfin  and 
unearthly,  a sprite,  an  Ariel.  And  imagine  that,  as 
you  got  to  know  him,  this  sprite,  this  visitant  from 
another  sphere,  turned  out  to  differ  from  mankind  in 
general  not  by  being  less  human  but  by  being  a great 
deal  more  human  than  they ; richer-blooded,  greater- 
hearted  ; more  human  in  all  senses  of  the  word,  for  he 
comprised  within  himself,  and  would  flash  on  you  in  the 
course  of  a single  afternoon,  all  the  different  ages  and 
half  the  different  characters  of  man,  the  unfaded  fresh- 
ness of  a child,  the  ardent  outlook  and  adventurous 
day-dreams  of  a boy,  the  steadfast  courage  of  manhood, 
the  quick  sympathetic  tenderness  of  a woman,  and 
already,  as  early  as  the  mid-twenties  of  his  life,  an  almost 
uncanny  share  of  the  ripe  life-wisdom  of  old  age.  He 
was  a fellow  of  infinite  and  unrestrained  jest  and  yet 
of  infinite  earnest,  the  one  very  often  a mask  for  the 
other  ; a poet,  an  artist,  an  adventurer  ; a man  beset 
with  fleshly  frailties,  and  despite  his  infirm  health  of 
strong  appetities  and  unchecked  curiosities  ; and  yet 
a profoundly  sincere  moralist  and  preacher  and  son 
of  the  Covenanters  after  his  fashion,  deeply  conscious 
of  the  war  within  his  members,  and  deeply  bent  on 
acting  up  to  the  best  he  knew.  Henley  tried  to  sum 
him  up  in  a well-known  sonnet : — 


102 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


* Thin-legged,  thin-chested,  slight  unspeakably. 

Neat-footed  and  weak-fingered  : in  his  face — 

Lean,  large-boned,  curved  of  beak,  and  touched  with  race, 
Bold-lipped,  rich-tinted,  mutable  as  the  sea, 

The  brown  eyes  radiant  with  vivacity — 

There  shines  a brilliant  and  romantic  grace, 

A spirit  intense  and  rare,  with  trace  on  trace 
Of  passion  and  impudence  and  energy. 

Valiant  in  velvet,  light  in  ragged  luck, 

Most  vain,  most  generous,  sternly  critical, 

Buffoon  and  poet,  lover  and  sensualist : 

A deal  of  Ariel,  just  a streak  of  Puck, 

Much  Anthony,  of  Hamlet  most  of  all, 

And  something  of  the  Shorter-Catechist. 9 

In  that  sonnet  Henley  has  drawn  up  a lively  and 
showy — or  shall  we  not  rather  say  flashy  ? — enough 
catalogue  of  the  diverse  qualities  and  contradictory 
aspects  which  he  recognized  in  his  friend.  But  the 
pity  is  that  as  there  described  those  qualities  lie  like 
spillikins,  unrelated  and  disconnected.  Henley  has 
missed  what  gave  its  unity  to  the  character  and  what 
every  other  among  his  nearer  friends  soon  discovered 
to  be  the  one  essential,  never  failing  and  ever  endearing 
thing  under  all  that  play  and  diversity  of  being.  This 
was  the  infinitely  kind  and  tender,  devotedly  generous, 
brave  and  loving  heart  of  the  man. 

I first  saw  him  at  the  beginning  of  August,  1873, 
that  is  all  but  forty-eight  years  ago,  when  he  was 
twenty-three  and  I twenty-eight.  I had  landed  from 
a Great-Eastern  train  at  a little  country  station  in 
Suffolk,  and  was  met  on  the  platform  by  a stripling 
in  a velvet  jacket  and  straw  hat,  who  walked  up 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


103 


with  me  to  the  country  rectory  where  he  was  staying 
and  where  I had  come  to  stay.  I had  lately  been 
appointed  Slade  Professor  at  Cambridge  ; the  rectory 
was  that  of  Cockfield,  near  Bury  St.  Edmunds  ; the 
host  was  my  much  older  colleague  Professor  Churchill 
Babington,  of  amiable  and  learned  memory ; the 
hostess  was  his  wife,  a grand-daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Lewis  Balfour  of  Colinton,  Midlothian  ; the  youth  was 
her  young  first  cousin  by  the  mother’s  side,  Louis 
Stevenson  from  Edinburgh.  The  first  shyness  over 
I realized  in  the  course  of  that  short  walk  how  well  I 
had  done  to  follow  the  advice  of  a fellow-guest  who 
had  preceded  me  in  the  house — to  wit  Mrs.  Sitwell, 
my  wife  as  she  came  later  on  to  be.  She  had  written 
to  me  about  this  youth,  declaring  that  I should  find 
him  a real  young  genius  and  urging  me  to  come  if  I 
could  before  he  went  away.  I could  not  wonder  at 
what  I presently  learnt — how  within  an  hour  of  his 
first  appearance  at  the  rectory,  knapsack  on  back,  a 
few  days  earlier,  he  had  captivated  the  whole  house- 
hold. To  his  cousin  the  hostess,  a woman  of  a fine 
sympathetic  nature  and  quick,  humorous  intelligence, 
he  was  of  course  well  known  beforehand,  though  she 
had  never  seen  him  in  so  charming  a light  as  now. 
With  her  husband  the  Professor,  a clergyman  of  solid 
antiquarian  and  ecclesiastical  knowledge  and  an  almost 
Pickwickian  simplicity  of  character  corresponding  to 
his  lovable  rotund  visage  and  innocently  beaming 
spectacles — with  the  Professor,  “ Stivvy,”  as  he  called 
his  wife’s  young  cousin,  was  already  something  of  a 
favourite.  Of  their  guests,  I found  one,  a boy  of  ten, 


104 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


watching  for  every  moment  when  he  could  monopolize 
the  newcomer’s  attention,  either  to  show  off  to  him  the 
scenes  of  his  toy  theatre  or  to  conduct  him  confiden- 
tially by  the  hand  about  the  garden  or  beside  the  moat ; 
while  between  him  and  the  boy’s  mother,  Mrs.  Sitwell, 
there  had  sprung  up  an  instantaneous  understanding. 
Not  only  the  lights  and  brilliancies  of  his  nature,  but 
the  strengths  and  glooms  that  underlay  them,  were 
from  the  first  apparent  to  her,  so  that  in  the  trying 
season  of  his  life  which  followed  he  was  moved  to 
throw  himself  upon  her  sympathies  with  the  unlimited 
confidence  and  devotion  to  which  his  letters  of  the 
time  bear  witness.  He  sped  those  summer  nights  and 
days  for  us  all  as  I have  scarce  known  any  sped  before 
or  since.  He  seemed,  this  youngster,  already  to  have 
lived  and  seen  and  felt  and  dreamed  and  laughed  and 
longed  more  than  others  do  in  a lifetime.  He  showed 
himself  moreover  full  of  reading,  at  least  in  English 
and  French — for  his  Latin  was  shaky  and  Greek  he 
only  got  at  through  translations.  Over  wide  ranges 
of  life  and  letters  his  mind  and  speech  ran  like  the 
fingers  of  a musician  over  the  keyboard  of  an  instru- 
ment. Pure  poetic  eloquence  (coloured  always,  be  it 
remembered,  by  a strong  Scottish  accent),  grave  argu- 
ment and  criticism,  riotous  freaks  of  fancy,  flashes  of 
nonsense  more  illuminating  than  wisdom,  streamed 
from  him  inexhaustibly  as  he  kindled  with  delight  at 
the  delight  of  his  hearers. 

Strange  to  say,  this  brilliant  creature,  though  he  had 
made  one  or  two  close  and  appreciative  intimates  of 
his  own  age  and  sex,  had  not  been  thought  good 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


105 


enough  for  the  polite  society  of  his  native  Edinburgh. 
In  most  of  the  few  houses  which  he  frequented  he  seems 
to  have  been  taken  for  an  eccentric  and  affected  kind 
of  Bohemian  'poseur , to  be  treated  at  best  with  tolera- 
tion. In  a book,  or  if  I remember  rightly  in  more 
than  one  book,  on  his  early  Edinburgh  days,  a member 
of  one  of  those  houses,  and  sister  of  one  of  his  special 
friends,  has  since  his  death  written  of  him  in  a fine 
superior  tone  of  retrospective  condescension.  In  new 
and  more  sympathetic  company  his  social  genius 
immediately  expanded  and  glowed  as  I have  said, 
till  all  of  us  seemed  to  catch  something  of  his  own 
gift  and  inspiration.  This  power  of  inspiring  others 
has  been  noted  by  many  of  those  who  knew  Stevenson 
later  as  an  especial  and  distinguishing  mark  of  his 
conversation.  As  long  as  he  was  there  you  kept 
discovering  with  delight  unexpected  powers  in  your- 
self. You  felt  as  if  you  had  taken  service  with  a 
conjuror,  whom  you  supplied  with  balls  of  clay  and 
who  took  them  and  turned  them  into  gold  and  sent 
them  whirling  and  glowing  about  his  head,  making  you 
believe  all  the  while  that  they  were  still  truly  yours. 

But  on  further  acquaintance  it  soon  became  clear 
that  under  all  this  captivating,  this  contagious  gaiety 
and  charm  there  lay  a troubled  spirit,  in  grave  risk 
from  the  perils  of  youth,  from  a constitution  naturally 
frail  and  already  heavily  over-strained,  from  self- 
distrust and  uncertainty  as  to  his  own  powers  and 
purposes,  and  above  all  from  the  misery  of  bitter,  heart- 
and  soul-rending  disagreements  with  a father  to  whom 
he  was  devotedly  attached.  It  was  only  when,  after 


106 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


a brief  return  to  Edinburgh  from  Cockfield,  he  came 
south  again  in  the  next  month  that  we  discovered  so 
much  concerning  him.  He  spent  his  time  partly  in 
London  and  partly  with  me  in  a cottage  I then  in- 
habited in  the  southern  hill-suburb  of  Norwood.  With 
various  types  of  genius  and  of  the  charm  and  power  of 
genius  among  my  elders  I had  already,  as  indicated 
in  some  of  the  earlier  pages  of  this  book,  had  fortunate 
opportunities  of  becoming  familiar.  In  this  brilliant 
and  troubled  Scotch  youth  I could  not  fail  to  realize 
that  here,  among  my  juniors,  was  a genius  who  might 
well  fail  on  the  threshold  of  life,  but  who,  if  he  could 
only  win  through,  had  it  in  him  to  take  as  shining  a 
place  as  any  of  them.  No  wonder  if  we,  his  new 
friends,  were  keen  to  do  all  we  could  for  him  in  the  way 
of  help  and  sympathy.  It  was  no  surprise  to  us 
when  towards  mid-October,  after  a second  return  to 
Edinburgh,  his  letters  brought  news  of  threatening  ill- 
ness, nor  when,  having  again  come  south  to  be  exam- 
ined, as  had  been  agreed  with  his  father,  for  admis- 
sion into  one  of  the  London  Inns  of  Court,  he  had  per- 
force to  change  his  purpose  and  undergo  a different 
kind  of  examination  at  the  hands  of  Sir  Andrew  Clark. 
That  wise  physician  peremptorily  ordered  him  a 
period  of  rest  in  the  soothing  climate  of  the  French 
Riviera,  out  of  reach  of  all  occasion  or  possibility  of 
contention  with  those  he  loved  at  home. 

The  recollections  of  him  that  remain  with  me  from 
the  next  few  years  are  partly  of  two  visits  I paid  him 
in  the  course  of  that  first  winter  (1873-1874)  on  the 
Riviera ; partly  of  visits  he  paid  me  in  the  Norwood 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


107 


cottage,  or  in  another  cottage  I rented  a little  later 
at  Hampstead,  or  later  again  in  college  rooms  which 
I occupied  as  a professor  at  Cambridge ; partly  from 
his  various  descents  upon  or  passages  through  London, 
made  sometimes  from  Edinburgh  and  sometimes  from 
France,  after  his  return  in  1874  to  his  now  reconciled 
home.  The  points  in  his  character  these  stray 
recollections  chiefly  illustrate  are,  first,  the  longing 
for  a life  of  action  and  adventure,  which  in  an  ordinary 
youth  might  have  passed  as  a matter  of  course  but 
in  one  already  so  stricken  in  health  seemed  pathetically 
vain ; next,  his  inborn  faculty — a very  much  rarer 
gift — as  an  artist  in  letters,  and  the  scrupulous  self- 
training by  which  almost  from  boyhood  he  had  been 
privately  disciplining  it : then  the  intensely,  quite 
exceptionally,  observing  and  loving  interest  he  took 
in  young  children  : and  above  all,  that  magical  power 
he  had  of  winning  the  delighted  affection,  the  immediate 
confidence,  of  men  and  women  of  the  most  various 
sorts  and  conditions,  always  excepting  those  hide- 
bound in  starched  propriety  or  conventional  official- 
dom, whom  he  had  a scarce  less  unfailing  power  of 
putting  against  him  at  first  sight. 

At  the  Suffolk  rectory  he  had  been  neatly  enough 
clad  : most  of  the  images  of  him  that  rise  next  before 
me  present  him  in  the  slovenly,  nondescript  Bohemian 
garments  and  untrimmed  hair  which  it  was  in  those 
days  his  custom  to  wear.  I could  somehow  never  feel 
this  to  be  an  affectation  in  Stevenson,  or  dislike  it  as 
I should  have  been  apt  to  dislike  and  perhaps  despise 
it  in  anybody  else.  We  agree  to  give  the  name  of  affec- 


108 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


tation  to  anything  markedly  different  from  common 
usage  in  little,  every-day  outward  things — unconcerning 
things,  as  the  poet  Donne  calls  them.  But  affectation 
is  affectation  indeed  only  when  a person  does  or  says  that 
which  is  false  to  his  or  her  nature.  And  given  a nature 
differing  sufficiently  from  the  average,  perhaps  the 
real  affectation  would  be  that  it  should  force  itself  to 
preserve  an  average  outside  to  the  world.  Steven- 
son’s uncut  hair  came  originally  from  the  fear  of 
catching  cold.  His  shabby  clothes  came  partly  from 
lack  of  cash,  partly  from  lack  of  care,  partly,  as  I 
think  I have  said  elsewhere,  from  a hankering  after 
social  experiment  and  adventure,  and  a dislike  of  being 
identified  with  any  special  class  or  caste.  Certainly 
conventional  and  respectable  attire,  when  by  exception 
he  wore  it,  did  not  in  those  days  sit  him  well.  Going 
with  me  one  day  from  Hampstead  to  the  Royal 
Academy  Exhibition,  he  thought  such  attire  would  be 
expected  of  him,  and  looked  out  a black  frock  coat  and 
tall  hat  which  he  had  once  worn  at  a wedding.  I can 
see  now  the  odd  figure  he  made  as  he  walked  with  me 
in  that  unwonted  garb  down  Regent  Street  and  along 
Piccadilly.  True,  he  carried  his  tall  hat  not  on  his 
head,  but  in  his  hand  because  it  chafed  him.  Also, 
being  fresh  from  an  enthusiastic  study  of  the  prosody 
of  Milton,  he  kept  declaiming  to  me  with  rapturous 
comments  as  we  walked  the  lines  and  cadences  which 
chiefly  haunted  him  : — 

“ His  wrath 

Burned  after  them  to  the  bottomless  pit.” 

“ Like  Teneriffe  or  Atlas,  unremoved — ” 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


109 


“All  night  the  dreadless  angel,  unpursued — ” 

“ Oh  ! how  comely  it  is  and  how  reviving 
To  the  spirits  of  just  men  long  opprest ! ” 

It  was  while  he  declaimed  these  last  two  lines,  the 
opening  of  a famous  chorus  in  Samson  Agonistes,  that 
the  gates  of  Burlington  House,  I remember,  enfolded 

us. 

More  characteristic  of  his  ordinary  ways  was  his 
appearance  one  very  early  morning  from  London  at 
the  Norwood  cottage.  He  presented  himself  to  my 
astonished  servant,  on  her  opening  the  shutters, 
wearing  a worn-out  sleeved  waistcoat  over  a black 
flannel  shirt,  and  weary  and  dirty  from  a night’s  walking 
followed  by  a couple  of  hours’  slumber  in  a garden 
outhouse  he  had  found  open.  He  had  spent  the  night 
on  the  pad  through  the  southern  slums  and  suburbs, 
trying  to  arouse  the  suspicions  of  one  policeman  after 
another  till  he  should  succeed  in  getting  taken  up  as 
a rogue  and  vagabond  and  thereby  gaining  proof 
for  his  fixed  belief  that  justice,  at  least  in  the  hands 
of  its  subordinate  officers,  has  one  pair  of  scales  for 
the  ragged  and  another  for  the  respectable.  But  one 
and  all  saw  through  him,  and  refused  to  take  him 
seriously  as  a member  of  the  criminal  classes.  Though 
surprised  at  their  penetration,  and  rather  crestfallen 
at  the  failure  of  his  attempt,  he  had  had  his  reward 
in  a number  of  friendly  and  entertaining  conversations 
with  the  members  of  the  force,  ending  generally  in 
confidential  disclosures  as  to  their  private  affairs  and 
feelings. 

Foreign  officials  and  police,  not  to  speak  of  attaches 


110 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  bank  clerks  and  managers,  were  not  so  clear-sighted, 
and  he  sometimes  came  in  for  worse  treatment  than 
he  bargained  for.  Readers  remember,  I dare  say,  his 
account  of  his  expulsion  by  the  hostess  of  La  Fere  in 
the  Inland  Voyage , still  more  that  of  his  arrest  and 
temporary  imprisonment  by  the  Commissary  of  Police 
at  Chatillon-sur-Loing,  which  is  one  of  the  most  * 
delectable  pieces  of  humorous  narrative  in  English 
literature.  Troubles  of  this  kind  had  their  consolation 
in  that  they  gave  him  matter  for  the  entertainment  of 
his  readers.  Not  so  the  rebuffs  he  sometimes  under- 
went when  he  visited  embassies  or  banks  on  business 
concerned  with  passports  or  letters  of  credit.  I have 
known  him  made  actually  ill  by  futile  anger  at  the 
contumelious  reception  he  met  with  in  such  places. 
He  lacked  the  power,  which  comes  only  too  naturally 
from  most  men  sprung,  as  he  was,  from  a stock  accus- 
tomed to  command,  of  putting  down  insolence  by 
greater  insolence.  He  could  rage,  indeed,  but  usually 
his  rage  was  ineffectual  and  only  brought  a dangerous 
rush  of  blood  to  his  head  and  eyes.  Once,  however, 
he  had  his  revenge  and  his  hour  of  triumph,  of  which 
to  my  deep  regret  I was  not  myself  a witness.  On 
the  way  from  Nice  to  Royat  he  had  stopped  at  Cler- 
mont-Ferrand, the  old  provincial  capital  of  Auvergne. 
He  went  to  a bank  to  cash  some  circular  notes  of  the 
British  Linen  Company  in  Edinburgh.  His  appear- 
ance had  the  usual,  almost  magical,  effect  of  arousirg 
in  the  business  mind  suspicions,  amounting  to  conviction, 
of  his  dishonesty.  The  men  in  office  roundly  told 
him  that  there  was  no  such  firm  among  their  corre- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


111 


spondents ; that  they  more  than  suspected  him  of 
having  come  with  intent  to  defraud,  but  as  an  act 
of  kindness  would  give  him  five  minutes  to  make 
himself  scarce  before  they  sent  for  the  police.  For 
once  he  kept  his  head  and  temper,  outwardly  at  least ; 
sturdily  declined  to  leave  the  premises ; and  insisted 
that  the  police  should  be  sent  for  immediately.  Pre- 
sently his  eye  was  caught  by  a rack  of  pigeon-holes 
containing  letters  and  documents  which  by  some  intui- 
tion he  saw  or  divined  to  be  from  foreign  correspondents 
of  the  firm ; dashed  at  it  despite  all  remonstrances ; 
rummaged  the  papers  before  the  eyes  of  the  astonished 
clerks  ; drew  forth  in  triumph  a bundle  containing 
correspondence  from  the  British  Linen  Company, 
including  the  letter  of  credit  for  himself ; demanded 
that  the  partners  and  men  in  authority  should  be 
brought  down,  and  when  they  appeared,  exposed  to 
them  with  a torrent  of  scornful  eloquence  their  mis- 
conduct of  their  business,  and  drew  a terrifying  picture 
of  the  ruin  that  they  must  inevitably  reap  from  such 
treatment  of  distinguished  foreign  clients.  His  triumph 
was  complete : the  whole  house,  partners  and  clerks, 
abased  themselves  in  regrets  and  apologies,  and  es- 
corted him  to  the  door  with  fawning  demonstrations 
of  respect.  This  was  his  day  of  victory ; strages 
bankerorum  he  called  it,  and  went  off  and  at  once 
designed  a medal — never,  I believe,  executed — in  its 
commemoration. 

But  this  story  belongs  to  a later  date ; and  to  go 
back  to  my  own  memories  of  the  early  days — I went 
twice  to  see  him  during  that  invalid  winter  on  the 


112 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Riviera,  He  had  been  staying  at  Mentone  (I  should 
properly  say  Menton,  but  those  of  us  who  remember 
the  place  before  the  annexation  of  Savoy  and  Nice 
to  France  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  spell  or  pronounce 
it  except  in  the  more  euphonious  Italian  manner). 
I proposed  that  he  should  move  to  meet  me  as  far 
(some  six  miles)  as  Monaco ; the  aspect  of  that  tiny 
capital,  with  the  exquisite  capricious  charm  of  its 
situation  on  a high  peninsular  rock  between  the  harbour 
and  the  outer  sea,  having  strongly  caught  my  fancy 
as  a boy  in  driving  along  the  Corniche  road  with  my 
father,  and  made  me  desire  to  explore  it  from  within. 
There  we  accordingly  spent  four  or  five  days,  and 
then  four  or  five  more  in  one  of  the  quieter  hotels  at 
Monte  Carlo.  My  memories  of  the  time  have  merged 
for  the  most  part  into  a generalized  impression  of 
sunlit  hours  spent  basking  in  a row-boat  about  the 
bay,  and  sped  by  endless  talk  which  ran  forward 
beyond  the  present  days  of  illness  to  ardent  schemes 
both  of  literature  and  adventure,  the  one  as  vividly 
imagined  and  worded  as  the  other.  Stevenson  has 
brought  home  to  the  senses  of  his  readers,  by  a magical 
phrase  or  two,  the  pungently  delicious  mingled  scent 
of  pine  and  juniper  and  myrtle  and  rosemary  which 
in  sunny  weather  comes  wafted  from  the  Cap  Martin 
over  the  shoreward  waters  of  that  sea : he  revelled 
in  this  scent,  and  I believe  it  was  already  carrying  him 
in  imagination  on  voyages  to  far-off  spice-islands  of 
the  East.  Of  the  literary  projects  broached  between 
us  the  only  one  I remember  was  a spectacle-play  on 
that  transcendent  type  of  human  vanity,  Herostratus, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


113 


who  to  keep  his  name  from  being  forgotten  kindled 
the  fire  that  burned  down  the  temple  of  Ephesus. 
Psychology  and  scenic  effects  as  Stevenson  descanted 
on  them  come  up  together  in  my  memory  even  yet, 
not  in  any  exactness  of  detail,  but  only  in  a kind  of 
vague  dazzle  and  flamboyance. 

There  was  one  sort  of  excitement  and  one  form  of 
risk  which  at  no  time  had  any  lure  for  Louis  and  which 
he  hated  alike  by  instinct  and  principle,  and  that  was 
gambling  for  money ; and  into  that  famous  and 
fascinating  cosmopolitan  hell,  the  Casino  of  Monte 
Carlo,  he  never  entered.  Once  or  twice  I looked  in 
by  myself  to  watch  the  play  ; and  the  last  time,  hearing 
a sudden  sharp  “ ping  ” from  near  the  wall  of  the 
room  over  my  right  shoulder,  I turned  and  saw  that 
a loser  having  left  the  table  lay  writhing  on  the  floor. 
He  had  shot  himself,  fatally  as  I afterwards  learnt, 
in  the  stomach.  The  attendants  promptly  came 
forward,  lifted  him  on  to  an  armchair,  and  carried 
him  out  of  the  room  with  an  air  of  grave  disapproval 
and  shocked  decorum.  When  I told  Louis  of  the 
scene  he  took  a disgust  at  the  place,  and  we  left  it 
together  for  Mentone.  After  I had  seen  him  installed 
in  fresh  and  comfortable  quarters  in  the  Hotel  Mirabeau, 
now  defunct,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  town,  I left  for 
Paris,  where  I had  a few  weeks’  work  to  do.  Returning 
in  January,  I found  him  enjoying  the  company  of 
two  Russian  sisters  living  in  a villa  annexed  to  the 
hotel,  ladies  some  twenty  years  older  than  himself, 
to  whom  and  to  their  children  he  had  become  quickly 
and  warmly  attached.  I say  their  children,  for  we 


114 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


never  could  well  make  out  which  child  belonged  to 
which  sister,  or  whether  one  of  the  two  was  not  the 
mother  of  them  both.  Both  were  brilliantly  accom- 
plished and  cultivated  women,  one  having  all  the 
unblushing  outspokenness  of  her  race,  its  unchecked 
vehemence  and  mutability  in  mirth  and  anger,  in 
scorn,  attachment,  or  aversion ; the  other  much  of 
an  invalid,  consistently  gentle  and  sympathetic,  and 
withal  an  exquisite  musician.  For  Stevenson  this 
sister  conceived  a great  quasi-maternal  tenderness, 
and  one  of  the  odd  tricks  my  memory  has  played  me 
is  that  my  nerves  retain  even  now  the  sense  of  her 
sharp  twitch  of  pain  as  I spoke  one  day,  while  she 
was  walking  with  her  arm  in  mine,  of  the  fears  enter- 
tained by  his  friends  for  his  health  and  future.  It 
was  the  younger  of  the  two  children  who  figures  so 
much  under  her  name  Nelitchka  in  his  letters  of  the 
time.  Hardly  any  one  has  written  of  young  children 
with  such  yearning  inwardness  of  love  combined  with 
so  much  analytic  intentness  and  subtlety  of  observation 
as  he.  But  how,  the  reader  may  interrupt,  how  about 
the  illustrious  Victor  Hugo  with  his  L-Art  d'etre 
grand-pere  and  his  Les  Enfants  ? The  comparison 
indeed  sounds  crushing ; but  perhaps  Hugo’s  work 
in  this  kind,  full  of  genius  as  it  is,  full  of  insight 
and  tenderness,  would  impress  more  if  there  were 
not  so  overwhelmingly  much  of  it,  if  it  did  not  burden 
us  with  a sense  of  almost  mechanical  abundance  and 
redundance  and  iteration.  The  small  objects  of  Steven- 
son’s passionately  delighted  study  were  not  always 
at  first  won  or  attracted  by  him.  Bather  they  were 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


115 


apt  to  feel  discomposed  under  the  intensity  of  the 
beaming  gaze  he  fastened  upon  them;  and  it  was 
with  a touch  of  womanly  affront  at  feeling  herself 
too  hard  stared  at  that  the  baby  Nelitchka  (aged 
two  and  a half)  addressed  him  by  a word  for  “rogue” 
or  “ naughty  man  ” she  had  lately  picked  up  in  Italy, 
“ Berecchino  ! ” Parental  interposition  presently 
reconciled  her,  and  they  became  fast  friends  and  play- 
mates ; but  the  name  stuck,  and  for  Nellie,  throughout 
those  weeks  when  the  child’s  company  and  the  watching 
of  her  indefatigable  tottering  efforts  to  dance,  and 
dance,  and  dance  to  her  mother’s  music  were  among 
his  chief  delights — for  Nellie,  Stevenson  was  never 
anything  but  Monsieur  Berecchino.  But  of  this  more 
anon. 

Another  memory  of  the  time  illustrates  the  hopeless 
incompatibility  that  existed  between  this  young  genius 
and  the  more  frozen  types  of  bourgeois  convention- 
ality. There  was  at  our  hotel  a young  or  youngish, 
well-groomed  Frenchman  of  this  class,  the  quintessence 
of  respectable  nullity  and  complacent  correctness, 
who  sat  at  the  same  long  table  with  us  for  some  weeks. 
At  our  end  of  the  table,  besides  Stevenson  and  myself 
with  the  Russian  ladies  and  their  children,  there  sat 
also  a bearded  French  landscape  painter,  Robinet  by 
name,  in  opinions  a violent  clerical  and  reactionary, 
but  an  artist  and  the  best  of  genial  good  fellows.  Bay 
after  day  Stevenson  kept  this  little  company  in  an 
enchanted  atmosphere  of  mirth  and  mutual  delight 
with  one  another  and  with  him.  But  the  glow  which 
enkindled  the  rest  of  us  stopped  dead  short  of  the 


116 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


correct  Frenchman,  who  sat  a little  apart,  icily  isolated, 
annoyed,  envying,  disapproving.  Stevenson,  I think, 
was  hardly  aware  of  his  existence  at  all,  more  than 
of  a wooden  dummy.  R.  L.  S.  was  drawing  more  or 
less  consciously  from  himself  when  he  wrote  of  one 
of  his  characters,  Dick  Naseby  in  The  Story  of  a 
Lie — “He  was  a type-hunter  among  mankind.  He 
despised  small  game  and  insignificant  personalities, 
whether  in  the  shape  of  dukes  or  bagmen,  letting  them 
go  by  like  seaweed  ; but  show  him  a refined  or  powerful 
face,  let  him  hear  a plangent  or  a penetrating  voice, 
fish  for  him  with  a living  look  in  some  one’s  eye,  a 
passionate  gesture,  a meaning  or  ambiguous  smile, 
and  his  mind  was  instantaneously  awakened".  Finding 
himself  thus  left  out  in  the  cold,  not  rudely  or  on 
purpose,  for  Stevenson  was  incapable  of  a conscious 
rudeness,  but  nevertheless  left  out,  from  a company 
which  included  obviously  attractive  ladies,  my  French- 
man could  not  bear  it.  One  day,  on  the  occasion  of 
some  commonplace  civility  I showed  him,  he  confided 
to  me,  with  no  breach  of  correct  manners,  the  extreme 
distaste  and  resentment  he  had  conceived  against  my 
friend,  and  even  indicated  that  he  would  like  to  call 
him  out  if  he  could  find  an  excuse.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done,  no  possible  point  of  mutual  contact  or 
understanding  between  them.  I could  but  affably 
suggest  that  he  would  be  likely  to  find  more  sympathetic 
company  at  another  hotel ; and  he  took  the  hint. 

The  warm  regard  which  sprang  up  in  these  Mentone 
days  between  Stevenson  and  those  two  Russian  sisters 
led  to  a promise  that  in  the  next  summer  he  should 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


117 


pay  them  a visit  in  their  own  country.  But  circum- 
stances made  it  impossible  for  him  to  fulfil  the  pro- 
mise ; the  intimacy  of  those  winter  months  on  the 
Riviera  had  no  sequel  save  a correspondence  which 
flagged  after  a few  months  and  by  and  by  failed 
altogether ; and  neither  he  nor  I ever  saw  or  heard 
of  either  sister  again. 

To  the  same  winter  months  on  the  French  Riviera 
belongs  the  first  meeting  of  Stevenson  with  another 
gifted  Scotsman  of  letters,  Andrew  Lang,  in  those  days 
also  threatened  with  lung  trouble,  who  became  his 
friend  and  long  outlived  him.  It  seems  indeed  but 
the  other  day  that  we  had  to  mourn  the  loss  from 
among  us  of  that  kind,  learned,  whimsical,  many- 
faceted  character — scholar,  critic,  poet,  journalist, 
folk-lorist,  humanist,  and  humorist ; and  in  the  mind’s 
eye  of  many  of  us  there  still  lives  freshly  the  aspect  of 
the  half-silvered  hair  setting  off  the  all  but  black  eye- 
brows and  gipsy  eyes ; of  the  chiselled  features,  the 
smiling  languid  face  and  grace  behind  which  there 
lurked  intellectual  energies  so  keen  and  varied,  accom- 
plishments so  high,  so  insatiable  a spirit  of  curiosity 
and  research  under  a guise  so  airy  and  playful.  A 
fault,  or  flaw,  or  perversity  in  Lang,  no  doubt,  was  the 
trick  of  flippancy  which  he  allowed  to  spoil  some  of 
his  work  and  which  masked  altogether  from  some 
eyes  the  fine  substance  and  quality  of  the  man.  An- 
other was  the  habitual  preoccupation  with  his  own 
ideas  which  made  his  manner,  to  women  especially, 
often  seem  careless  and  abstracted,  or  even  rude,  when 
rudeness  was  farthest  from  his  intention.  But  towards 


118 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


his  friends  there  was  no  man  steadier  in  kindness  or 
more  generous  in  appreciation,  as  I for  one  can  testify 
from  more  than  forty  years’  experience,  and  as  Steven- 
son had  full  occasion  to  know.  It  was  not  without 
some  trepidation  that  I first  brought  them  together 
in  those  Mentone  days,  for  I suppose  no  two  young 
Scots,  especially  no  two  sharing  so  many  literary  tastes, 
were  ever  more  unlike  by  temperament  and  training. 
On  the  one  hand  the  young  Oxford  don,  a successful 
and  typical  scholar  on  the  regular  academic  lines, 
picturesque  by  the  gift  of  nature  but  fastidiously  correct 
and  reserved,  purely  English  in  speech,  with  a recurring 
falsetto  note  in  the  voice — that  kind  of  falsetto  that 
bespeaks  languor  rather  than  vehemence ; full  of 
literature  and  pleasantry  but  on  his  guard,  even  to 
affectation,  against  any  show  of  emotion,  and  consist- 
ently dissembling  the  perfervidum  ingenium  of  his 
race,  if  he  had  it,  under  a cloak  of  indifference  and 
light  banter.  On  the  other  hand  the  brilliant,  irregu- 
larly educated  lad  from  Edinburgh,  to  the  conventional 
eye  an  eccentrically  ill-clad  and  long-haired  nondescript, 
with  the  rich  Lallan  accent  on  his  tongue,  the  obvious 
innate  virility  and  spirit  of  adventure  in  him  ever  in 
mutiny  against  the  invalid  habits  imposed  by  ill-health, 
the  vivid,  demonstrative  ways,  every  impulse  of  his 
heart  and  mind  flashing  out  in  the  play  of  eye,  feature, 
and  gesture  no  less  than  in  the  humorous  riot  and  poeti- 
cal abundance  of  his  talk.  There  were  symptoms 
during,  and  even  after,  the  first  meeting  of  the  two 
which  seemed  as  though  the  kind  of  misunderstanding 
might  spring  up  between  them  which  I had  feared ; 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


119 


but  such  an  immediate  result  having  been  happily 
averted  they  learned  quickly  to  appreciate  each  other’s 
gifts  and  company,  and  remained  fast  friends  to  the 
end.  There  are  few  finer  tributes  by  one  man  of  letters 
to  another,  his  contemporary,  than  that  of  Lang  to 
Stevenson  in  the  introduction  to  the  Swanston  edition. 

After  his  return  from  the  Riviera  in  1874  Stevenson 
was  elected  to  the  Savile  club,  then  quartered  in  the 
house  in  Savile  Row  from  which  it  takes  its  name 
and  which  it  afterwards  outgrew.  (It  had  pre- 
viously led  for  a few  years  a precarious  kind  of  chrysalis 
existence,  under  the  title  of  the  New  Club,  in  Spring 
Gardens  off  Charing  Cross.)  This  little  society  had 
been  founded  on  a principle  aimed  against  the  stand- 
offishness  customary  in  English  club  life,  and  all 
members  were  expected  to  hold  themselves  predisposed 
to  talk  and  liable  to  accost  without  introduction. 
Stevenson’s  earliest  friends  in  the  club  besides  myself 
were  Fleeming  J enkin,  the  most  versatile  and  vivacious, 
most  pugnaciously  minded  and  friendliest-hearted  of 
men,  the  single  one  among  his  Edinburgh  seniors  and 
teachers  who  had  seen  what  the  lad  was  worth,  truant 
pupil  though  he  might  be,  and  made  a friend  of  him  ; 
and  my  Cambridge  contemporary,  Professor  W.  K. 
Clifford,  that  short-lived  genius  unequalled  and  unap- 
proached, as  those  aver  who  can  follow  him,  in  the 
rarefied  region  of  speculation  where  the  higher  mathe- 
matics and  metaphysics  merge  into  one.  In  spheres 
of  thought  and  study  more  accessible  to  the  rest  of  us, 
Clifford  had  a beautiful  lucidity  of  mind  and  mastery 
of  style,  and  in  ordinary  human  intercourse  was 


120 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


extremely  striking  and  attractive,  with  his  powerful 
head  and  blunt  Socratic  features,  the  candid,  almost 
childlike,  upcast  look  of  his  light  grey-blue  eyes  between 
their  dark  lashes,  the  tripping  and  easy,  again  almost 
childlike,  simplicity  of  speech  and  manner  with  which 
he  would  debate  the  profoundest  problems,  and  the 
quite  childlike  pleasure  he  took  in  all  manner  of 
fun  and  nonsense  and  surprises  and  fairy-tales  (I  leave 
out  his  freaks  of  prowess  and  daring  as  an  athlete  and 
a dozen  of  his  other  claims  to  regard  and  admiration). 
That  such  a man,  having  met  Stevenson  once  or  twice 
in  my  company,  should  be  keen  to  back  him  for  the 
club  was  a matter  of  course.  Nor  did  the  members 
in  general,  being  for  the  most  part  young  men  drawn 
from  the  professions  of  science  or  learning,  of  art, 
literature,  journalism,  or  the  stage,  fail  to  appreciate 
the  new-comer.  On  his  visits  to  London  he  generally 
lunched  there,  and  at  the  meal  and  afterwards  came  to 
be  accepted  and  habitually  surrounded  as  a radiating 
centre  of  good  talk,  a kind  of  ideal  incarnation  of  the 
spirit  of  the  society.  Comparatively  rare  as  they  were, 
I believe  that  both  his  presences  in  those  days  and 
his  tradition  subsequently  contributed  as  much  as 
anything  towards  the  success  and  prosperity  of  the 
club.  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  who  joined  us  a couple  of 
years  later,  has  given  a pleasantly  vivid  picture  of  the 
days  when  an  introduction  at  the  Savile,  renewing  the 
memory  of  a chance  meeting  on  a Highland  pleasure- 
steamer  six  years  before,  laid  the  foundations  of  his 
and  Stevenson’s  friendship.  One  signal  case  of  failure 
remains  indeed  in  some  of  our  memories.  A certain 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


] 21 


newly  elected  member  of  some  social  and  literary  stand- 
ing, but  unacquainted  with  the  spirit  of  the  place,  sat 
lunching  alone.  Stevenson,  desiring  to  welcome  him 
and  make  him  feel  at  home,  went  over  and  opened  talk 
in  his  most  gracious  manner.  His  advance  was  received 
with  a cold  rebuff  and  the  implied  intimation  that 
the  stranger  desired  no  company  but  his  own.  Steven- 
son came  away  furious,  and  presently  relieved  his 
wrath  with  the  lampoon  which  is  included  in  his  pub- 
lished works  and  begins  (the  offender  being  made  to 
speak  in  the  first  person) : — 

“ I am  a kind  of  farthing  dip 
Unfriendly  to  the  nose  and  eyes.” 

But  to  turn  from  such  social  memories,  which  will 
be  shared  by  a dwindling  band  of  survivors  from  the 
middle  and  later  seventies,  to  those  private  to  myself : 
— it  was  in  the  early  summer  of  1874,  soon  after  the 
appearance  of  his  second  published  paper,  Ordered 
South , that  he  spent  a fortnight  with  me  in  my  quarters 
on  Hampstead  Hill.  One  morning,  while  I was 
attending  to  my  own  affairs,  I was  aware  of  Stevenson 
craning  intently  out  of  a side  window  and  watching 
something.  Presently  he  turned  with  a radiant  coun- 
tenance and  the  thrill  of  happiness  in  his  voice  to 
bid  me  come  and  watch  too.  A group  of  girl  children 
were  playing  with  the  skipping-rope  a few  yards  down 
the  lane.  “ Was  there  ever  such  heavenly  sport  ? 
Had  I ever  seen  anything  so  beautiful  ? Kids  and  a 
skipping-rope — most  of  all  that  blessed  youngest  kid 
with  the  broken  nose  who  didn’t  know  how  to  skip 


122 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


— nothing  in  the  whole  wide  world  had  ever  made 
him  half  so  happy  in  his  life  before.”  Scarce  any  one 
else  would  have  given  a second  look  or  thought  to 
the  little  scene  ; but  while  it  lasted  it  held  him  thus 
entranced  in  the  eagerness  of  observation,  and  exclaim- 
ing through  all  the  gamut  of  superlatives.  From  such 
superlatives,  corresponding  to  the  ardour  and  intensity 
of  his  being,  his  talk  at  all  times  derived  much  of  its 
colour.  During  ill-health,  had  he  a day  or  an  hour 
of  respite,  he  would  gleefully  proclaim  himself  a balmy 
being  and  a bird  of  Paradise.  Did  anything  in  life 
or  literature  please  him,  it  was  for  the  moment  inimit- 
ably and  incomparably  the  most  splendid  and  wonder- 
ful thing  in  the  whole  world,  and  he  must  absolutely 
have  you  think  so  too — unless,  indeed,  you  chose  to 
direct  his  sense  of  humour  against  his  own  exaggera- 
tions, in  which  case  he  would  generally  receive  your 
criticism  with  ready  assenting  laughter.  But  not 
quite  always,  if  the  current  of  feeling  was  too  strong. 
My  wife  reminds  me  of  an  incident  in  point,  from  the 
youthful  time  when  he  used  to  make  her  the  chief 
confidante  of  his  troubles  and  touchstone  of  his  tastes. 
One  day  he  came  to  her  with  an  early,  I think  the 
earliest,  volume  of  poems  by  Mr.  Robert  Bridges,  the 
present  poet-laureate,  in  his  hand ; declared  here  was 
the  most  wonderful  new  genius,  and  enthusiastically 
read  out  to  her  some  of  the  contents  in  evidence ; till 
becoming  aware  that  they  were  being  coolly  received, 
he  leapt  up  crying,  “ My  God  ! I believe  you  don’t 
like  them,”  and  flung  the  book  across  the  room  and 
himself  out  of  the  house  in  a paroxysm  of  disappoint- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


123 


ment — to  return  a few  hours  later  and  beg  pardon 
humbly  for  his  misbehaviour.  But  for  some  time 
afterwards,  whenever  he  desired  her  judgment  on 
work  of  his  own  or  others,  he  would  begin  by  bargain- 
ing : “You  won’t  Bridges  me  this  time,  will  you  ? ” 
Sometimes,  indeed,  when  he  meant  something  stronger 
even  than  usual,  he  would  himself  disarm  the  critic, 
and  at  the  same  time  heighten  his  effect,  by  employing  a 
figure  not  of  exaggeration  but  of  humorous  diminution, 
and  would  cover  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  by  express- 
ing it  in  some  perfectly  colourless,  flat  hack  phrase. 
You  would  propose  something  you  knew  he  was  red- 
hot  to  do,  and  he  would  reply,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
anticipation,  “ Well,  yes,  he  could  bring  himself  to 
do  that  without  a pang  ” : or  he  would  describe  the 
horrors  of  a visit  to  the  dentist  or  of  a formal  tea-party 
(to  one  or  two  of  which  he  was  about  this  time  lured), 
by  admitting  that  it  hadn’t  been  quite  all  his  fancy 
painted  it ; which  you  knew  meant  a degree  of  tribula- 
tion beyond  superlatives. 

Nothing  proved  to  my  mind  Stevenson’s  true  voca- 
tion to  literature,  or  encouraged  me  more  to  push  him 
under  the  notice  of  editors,  than  the  way  in  which 
he  exercised  from  the  first  a firm  artistic  control  over 
his  own  temperament,  suppressing  his  tendency  to 
exaggerations  and  superlatives  and  practising  a deliber- 
ate moderation  of  statement  and  lenity  of  style.  This 
was  very  apparent  when  the  little  scene  outside  our 
lodging-house  window,  mingling  in  memory  with  the 
pleasure  he  had  lately  experienced  at  Mentone  in 
watching  the  staggering  evolutions  of  his  Russian 


124 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


baby  friend  Nelitchka,  suggested  to  him  the  essay, 
“ Notes  on  the  Movements  of  Young  Children,”  which 
was  printed  in  the  Portfolio  (then  edited  by  Philip 
Gilbert  Hamerton)  for  the  following  August.  The 
little  paper,  which  he  did  not  think  worth  reprinting 
in  his  life-time  but  is  to  be  found  in  the  posthumous 
editions,  seemed  to  me  an  extraordinarily  promising 
effort  at  analytic  description  half-humorous,  half- 
tender— and  promising  above  all  in  as  far  as  it  proved 
how  well,  while  finding  brilliantly  effective  expression 
for  the  subtlety  of  vital  observation  which  was  one 
part  of  his  birthright,  he  could  hold  in  check  the 
tendency  to  emotional  stress  and  vehemence  which 
was  another.  This  was  in  itself  a kind  of  distinction 
in  an  age  when  so  many  of  our  prose- writers,  and  those 
the  most  attractive  and  impressive  to  youth,  as  Carlyle, 
Macaulay,  Ruskin,  Dickens,  were  men  who,  for  all 
their  genius,  lacked  or  did  not  seek  the  special  virtues 
of  restraint  and  lenity  of  style,  but  were  given,  each 
after  his  manner,  to  strenuous  emphasis,  to  splendid 
over-colouring  and  over-heightening : dealers  in  the 
purple  patch  and  the  insistent  phrase,  the  vehement 
and  contentious  assertion. 

The  next  scene  which  comes  up  with  a special  vivid- 
ness in  my  memory  dates,  I think,  from  a year  or 
two  later.  Of  very  young  children  his  love  was  not, 
as  I have  said,  always  at  once  returned  by  them ; 
but  over  growing  boys  of  whatever  class  or  breeding 
his  spell  was  apt  to  be  instantaneous.  City  arabs 
felt  it  just  as  much  as  any  others.  One  day,  as  he 
and  I had  just  come  out  from  a meditative  stroll 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


125 


through  St.  Paul’s  Cathedral,  we  found  ourselves  near 
a little  ragged  troop  of  such.  With  one  of  his  char- 
acteristic smiles,  full  of  love  and  mischief,  he  imme- 
diately, at  a first  glance,  seemed  to  establish  a roguish 
understanding  with  them.  They  grinned  back  and 
closed  about  him  and  clung  to  him  as  we  walked,  fasten- 
ing eager  looks  on  his,  held  and  drawn  by  they  knew 
not  what  expectation  : no,  not  by  the  hope  of  coppers, 
but  by  something  more  human — more  divine,  if  you 
like  to  put  it  so — that  had  beamed  upon  their  poor 
little  souls  from  his  looks.  The  small  crowd  of  them 
kept  growing  and  still  surrounding  us.  As  it  was 
impossible  for  him  at  that  place  and  moment  practically 
to  provide  adventure  or  entertainment  for  them,  it 
became  a little  difficult  to  know  what  to  do.  At  last 
I solved  the  situation  tamely,  by  calling  a hansom 
cab  and  carrying  my  friend  off  in  it.  More  by  token, 
that  same  hansom  horse,  I remember,  presently  got 
the  bit  between  his  teeth  and  bolted  for  some  half  a 
mile  along  the  Thames  Embankment ; and  while  I 
sat  with  stiffened  knees  and  nerves  on  the  stretch, 
expecting  a smash,  I could  see  that  Stevenson  actually 
enjoyed  it.  Few  of  us,  chiefly  because  the  build  of 
the  vehicle  kept  the  driver’s  hands  and  hold  upon  the 
reins  out  of  sight,  were  ever  truly  happy  in  a bolting 
hansom ; but  Stevenson  was  so  made  that  any  kind 
of  danger  was  a positive  physical  exhilaration  to  him. 

Of  the  visits  which  he  paid  to  me  at  Cambridge 
in  these  years,  the  retrospect  has  again  generalized 
itself  for  the  most  part  into  vagueness,  a mere  abstract 
sense  of  forgotten  talk  ranging  from  the  most  red- 


126 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


blooded  human  to  the  airiest  elfin.  One  impression 
which  was  always  strong  upon  him  there,  and  I think 
is  recorded  somewhere  in  his  letters,  is  the  profound 
difference  between  these  English  universities,  with  their 
beauty  and  dignity  of  aspect,  their  venerable  college 
buildings  and  fair  avenues  and  gardens,  and  anything 
which  exists  in  Scotland,  where  residential  colleges 
form  no  part  of  university  life.  Such  surroundings 
used  to  affect  him  with  a sense  almost  of  unreality, 
as  something  romantically  pleasurable  but  hardly 
credible ; and  this  sense  came  most  strongly  upon 
him  when  I left  him  alone  for  some  days  in  occupation 
of  my  rooms,  with  gyps  and  porters  at  his  beck,  while 
I went  off  on  business  elsewhere.  Of  personal  rela- 
tions which  he  formed  there  the  only  one  I specially 
remember  was  with  that  interesting  character,  the 
late  A.  G.  Dew-Smith.  Dew-Smith,  or  Dew,  as  his 
friends  called  him  for  short,  was  a man  of  fine  tastes 
and  of  means  to  gratify  them.  As  a resident  master  of 
arts  he  helped  the  natural  science  departments  by 
starting  and  superintending  a workshop  for  manufac- 
turing instruments  of  research  of  the  most  perfect 
make  and  finish ; and  he  was  one  of  the  most  skilful 
of  photographers,  alike  in  the  scientific  and  artistic  uses 
of  the  craft — a certain  large-scale  carbon  print  he  took 
of  Stevenson  to  my  mind  comes  nearer  to  the  original 
in  richness  of  character  and  expression  than  any  other 
portrait.  He  was  a collector  of  rare  prints  and  other 
treasures,  including  precious  stones,  of  which  in  their 
uncut  state  he  would  sometimes  pull  a handful  out 
of  his  pocket  to  show  us.  He  was  tall,  with  finely 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


127 


cut  features,  black  silky  hair  and  neatly  pointed  beard, 
and  withal  a peculiarly  soft  and  silken,  deliberate 
manner  of  speech.  Considerable  were  our  surprise  and 
amusement  when  some  dozen  years  later  we  found  his 
outward  looks  and  bearing,  and  particularly  his 
characteristic  turns  of  speech,  with  something  of 
dangerous  power  which  his  presence  suggested  as 
lying  behind  so  much  polished  blandness,  evoked  and 
idealized  by  Stevenson  in  his  creation  of  the  personage 
of  Attwater  in  that  grimmest  of  island  stories,  The 
Ebb  Tide . In  telling  anything  of  special  interest 
that  had  happened  to  himself,  Dew-Smith  had  a trick 
of  avoiding  the  first  person  singular,  and  instead  of 
saying  “ I did  ” or  “ I felt  ” so  and  so  would  say 
abstractly  in  the  third,  44  one  did 55  or  44  one  felt.” 
This  scrupulous  manner  of  non-egotism,  I remember, 
came  with  specially  odd  effect  when  one  day  he  was 
telling  us  how  an  official  at  a railway  station  had  been 
offensively  rude  to  him.  44  What  did  you  do  ? ” he 
was  asked,  and  replied  in  a deprecating  voice,  44  Well, 
you  know,  one  had  to  put  him  through  the  door- 
panels.”  It  is  this  aspect  of  Dew-Smith’s  character 
which  no  doubt  suggested,  although  it  did  not  really 
much  resemble,  the  ruthless  task-master,  the  man  of 
stern  Calvinistic  doctrine  and  iron  fatalism,  who  is 
the  other  half  of  Stevenson’s  Attwater. 

Stevenson  has  interpreted  the  aspects  and  the  thrill 
of  out-door  nature  as  magically  as  anyone  in  written 
words,  but  was  not  prone  to  talk  about  them.  44  No 
human  being  ever  spoke  of  scenery  for  above  two 
minutes  at  a time,”  he  declares  in  his  essay  on  Talk 


128 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  Talkers ; and  I cannot  remember  that  he  used 
ever  to  say  much  about  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau 
or  the  other  scenes  in  France  which  he  loved  so  well 
and  frequented  so  much  in  these  years,  or  even  about 
those  excursions  which  he  was  busy  turning  to  such 
happy  literary  account  in  An  Inland  Voyage  and 
Travels  with  a Donkey . Literature  and  human 
life  were  ever  his  main  themes ; including  sometimes, 
but  of  course  with  his  closest  intimates  only,  the 
problems  of  his  own  life.  By  and  by  such  intimates 
became  aware  that  these  problems  had  taken  on  a 
new  and  what  might  easily  have  turned  into  a tragical 
complexity.  He  had  been  for  some  time  in  the  habit 
of  frequenting  the  artist  haunts  of  the  Fontainebleau 
forest  in  the  company  of  his  cousin  Bob  Stevenson, 
for  the  sake  of  health  and  ease  of  mind  and  of  the 
open-air  life  and  congenial  irresponsible  company  he 
found  there.  In  those  haunts  it  presently  became 
apparent  he  had  met  his  fate.  To  escape  from  hope- 
less conjugal  troubles,  a Californian,  Mrs.  Osbourne, 
we  learnt,  had  come  and  for  the  time  being  settled 
there  with  her  daughter  and  young  son.  She  was 
some  dozen  years  older  than  Stevenson,  but  fate  had 
destined  them  for  each  other,  and  their  momentary 
mutual  attraction  soon  settled — for  each  was  as  far  as 
possible  from  being  a light-o’-love — into  the  unbreak- 
able bond  of  a life-time.  After  a while  the  lady  had  to 
return  to  California,  and  there  sought  and  was  able  to 
obtain  freedom  by  divorce,  Stevenson  had  promptly 
followed  her,  saying  nothing  of  his  intention  to  his 
parents,  who  he  knew  would  disapprove  it,  and  trusting 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


129 


wholly  to  the  meagre  resources  he  was  in  those  days 
able  to  command  by  his  pen.  Then  followed  for  those 
of  us  who  loved  him  and  were  in  the  secret  a period  of 
sore  anxiety.  There  reached  us  from  time  to  time 
scanty  news  of  his  discomforts  undergone  in  the 
emigrant  ship  and  train,  and  of  his  dangerous  and 
complicated  illnesses  afterwards,  and  evidences  withal 
of  his  indomitable  will  and  courage  in  the  shape  of 
new  tales  and  essays  composed  for  his  livelihood  in 
circumstances  under  which  any  less  resolute  spirit 
must  have  sunk.  Reconciled  with  his  parents  after 
a while  by  the  fact  of  his  marriage,  he  brought  his 
wife  home  to  them  in  the  late  summer  of  1880.  She 
made  an  immediate  conquest  of  them,  especially  of 
that  character  so  richly  compounded  between  the 
stubborn  and  the  tender,  the  humorous  and  the  grim, 
his  father.  Thenceforth  there  was  always  at  Louis’s 
side  a wife  for  his  friends  to  hold  only  second  in  affec- 
tion to  himself.  A separate  biography  of  her  by  her 
sister  has  lately  appeared,  giving,  along  with  many 
interesting  details  of  her  early  life,  a picture  of  her  on 
the  whole  softer  and  less  striking  than  that  which  I 
personally  retain.  Strength  and  staunchness  were,  as 
I saw  her,  her  ruling  qualities  ; strength  and  staunch- 
ness not  indeed  masculine  in  their  kind,  but  truly 
womanly.  Against  those  of  his  friends  who  might 
forget  or  ignore  the  precautions  which  his  health  de- 
manded she  could  be  a dragon  indeed ; but  the  more 
considerate  among  them  she  made  warmly  her  own 
and  was  ever  ready  to  welcome.  Deep  and  rich 
capacities  were  in  her,  alike  for  tragedy  and  humour ; 


130 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


all  her  moods,  thoughts,  and  instincts  were  vividly 
genuine  and  her  own,  and  her  daily  talk,  like  her 
letters,  was  admirable  both  for  play  of  character  and 
feeling  and  for  choice  and  colour  of  words.  On  those 
who  knew  the  pair  first  after  their  marriage  her  person- 
ality impressed  itself  almost  as  vividly  as  his ; and 
in  my  own  mind  his  image  lives  scarce  more  indelibly 
than  that  of  the  small,  dark-complexioned,  eager, 
devoted  woman  his  mate.  In  spite  of  her  squareish 
build  she  was  supple  and  elastic  in  all  her  movements  ; 
her  hands  and  feet  were  small  and  beautifully  modelled, 
though  not  meant  for,  or  used  to,  idleness  ; the  head, 
under  its  crop  of  close-waving  thick  black  hair,  was 
of  a build  and  character  that  somehow  suggested 
Napoleon,  by  the  firm  setting  of  the  jaw  and  the  beauti- 
fully precise  and  delicate  modelling  of  the  nose  and 
lips : the  eyes  were  full  of  sex  and  mystery  as  they 
changed  from  fire  or  fun  to  gloom  or  tenderness ; 
and  it  was  from  between  a fine  pearly  set  of  small  teeth 
that  there  came  the  clear  metallic  accents  of  her  in- 
tensely human  and  often  quaintly  individual  speech. 

The  journey  to  California,  with  its  risks  and  hard- 
ships, had  had  results  as  damaging  to  Stevenson’s 
health  as  they  were  needful  and  fruitful  for  his  happi- 
ness. After  his  return  in  the  late  summer  of  1880 
it  was  under  much  more  positively  invalid  conditions 
than  before  that  his  friends  found  themselves  obliged 
to  seek  his  company.  My  chief  special  recollections 
of  him  during  the  next  few  years  date  almost  entirely 
from  places  where  he  had  gone  in  hopes  of  recovery  or 
respite  from  his  complicated  and  crippling  troubles 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


131 


of  nerve,  artery  and  lung.  Just  as  little  as  the  restric- 
tions of  the  sick-room,  galling  to  him  above  all  men, 
had  power  to  hinder  his  industry  and  success  as  a 
writer,  so  little  did  they  impair  his  charm  as  a talker 
when  he  was  allowed  to  talk  at  all.  Occasionally, 
and  oftener  as  time  went  on,  haemorrhages  from  the 
lung,  or  the  immediate  threat  of  them,  enforced  upon 
him  periods  of  absolute  silence,  during  which  he  could 
only  communicate  on  paper  with  those  about  him, 
writing  with  blotting-pad  against  his  knees  as  he  lay 
in  his  red  flannel  dressing-gown  propped  against 
pillows  in  his  bed.  But  in  the  intervals  of  respite  his 
friends  had  the  happiness  of  finding  life  and  letters 
and  art,  experience  and  the  possibilities  of  experience, 
once  more  irradiated  for  them  as  vividly  as  before,  or 
even  more  vividly  yet,  in  the  glow  and  magic  of  his 
conversation. 

For  the  first  two  years  after  his  return  Stevenson 
spent  the  winters  (1880-81,  1881-82)  at  the  Swiss 
mountain  station  of  Davos,  which  had  just  begun  to 
come  into  repute  as  a place  of  cure,  and  the  summers  at 
one  resort  or  another  in  the  bracing  climate  of  the 
Scottish  Highlands.  The  Davos  of  1880,  approached 
by  a laborious  seven  hours’  sledge-drive  and  vastly 
different  from  the  luxurious  and  expanded  Davos  of 
to-day,  consisted  of  the  old  Swiss  village  of  Davos-Platz, 
clustered  round  its  high-spired  church,  with  one  central 
group  of  German  hotels  in  or  close  adjoining  the  village, 
and  another  smaller  but  more  scattered  group  of  English 
hotels  at  a little  distance  beside  the  open  road  in  the 
direction  of  the  minor  village  of  Davos-Dorf.  The 


132 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Stevenson  quarters  for  this  first  winter  were  at  the 
Hotel  Belvedere,  then  a mere  miniature  nucleus  of  its 
latter-day  self.  I shall  never  forget  his  first  reception 
of  me  there.  It  was  about  Christmas,  1880  ; I arrived 
late ; and  the  moment  dinner  was  over  he  had  me 
out  and  up  a short  hill  at  the  back  of  the  hotel.  There 
had  only  lately  fallen  enough  snow  to  allow  the  sport 
of  tobogganing  to  be  started : there  was  a steep 

zigzag  run  down  from  a hut  on  the  hill  to  near  the 
hotel : he  got  me  into  the  toboggan  by  moonlight,  we 
started  down  the  run,  capsized  at  a corner,  rolled  over 
and  over  with  our  mouths  and  pockets  full  of  snow, 
and  walked  home  in  tearing  spirits.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  like  him,  and  nothing  (of  course) 
much  worse  for  him.  My  impression  of  the  next  few 
weeks  at  Davos  is  one  of  high  tension  of  the  soul  and 
body  in  that  tingling  mountain  air,  under  the  iron 
moonlit  frosts  or  the  mid-day  dazzle  of  the  snow- 
fields  ; of  the  haunting  sense  of  tragedy  (of  one  tragedy 
in  especial  which  touched  us  both  to  the  heart)  among 
that  company,  for  the  most  part  doomed  or  stricken, 
with  faces  tanned  by  sun  and  frost  into  masks  belying 
their  real  plight : of  endless  bouts  of  eager,  ever  courte- 
ous give-and-take  over  the  dark  Valtellina  wine  between 
Stevenson  and  John  Addington  Symonds,  in  whom 
he  had  found  a talker  almost  as  charming  as  himself, 
exceeding  him  by  far  in  range  and  accuracy  of  know- 
ledge and  culture,  as  was  to  be  expected  in  the  author 
of  the  History  of  the  Rewmssanee  in  Italy , but  nothing 
like  his  match,  I thought,  in  essential  sanity  of  human 
judgment  or  in  the  power  of  illumination  by  unfore- 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


133 


seeable  caprices  of  humour  and  fantasy.  The  reader 
can  if  he  pleases  turn  to  Stevenson’s  own  impression 
of  these  conversations,  whether  as  generalized  after- 
ward in  the  essay  Talk  and  Talkers , where  Symonds 
figures  as  Opalstein,  or  as  set  down  in  a letter  at  the 
time  : — “ I like  Symonds  very  well,  though  he  is  much, 
I think,  of  an  invalid  in  mind  and  character.  But  his 
mind  is  interesting,  with  many  beautiful  corners,  and 
• his  consumptive  smile  very  winning  to  see.  We  have 
had  some  good  talks ; one  went  over  Zola,  Balzac, 
Flaubert,  Whitman,  Christ,  Handel,  Milton,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne ; do  you  see  the  liaison  ? — in  another,  I,  the 
Bohnist,  the  un-Grecian,  was  the  means  of  his  conversion 
in  the  matter  of  the  Ajax.”  It  is  interesting  to  compare 
with  these  words  Symonds’s  own  retrospect  on  the 
same  days  and  talks  written  six  years  after  Stevenson’s 
death : “ I have  never  lived  in  Davos  a better  time 
than  I lived  then  ; it  has  been  so  full  of  innocent  jollity 
and  beautiful  Bohemianism,  so  sweetened  by  the 
strong  clear  spirit  of  that  unique  sprite  whom  all  the 
world  claims  for  its  own  now — R.  L.  Stevenson.  . . . 
So  gracious  and  so  pure  a light  has  never  fallen  upon 
my  path  as  fell  from  his  fantastic  and  yet  intensely 
human  genius — the  beautiful  companionship  of  the 
Shelley-like  man,  the  eager,  gifted  wife,  and  the  boy 
for  whom  they  both  thought  in  all  their  ways  and 
hours.” 

Neither  from  the  first  of  the  two  Highland  summers 
nor  the  second  Alpine  winter  do  I retain  any  impres- 
sions as  strong  and  definite  as  those  I have  last  set 
down,  though  I was  with  him  for  a part  of  both,  and 


134 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


though  the  August  and  September  weeks  of  1881  at 
Braemar  were  marked  by  the  excitement  of  the  first 
conception  and  discussion  of  the  tale  of  The  Sea- 
CooTc , which  afterward  developed  into  Treasure  Island . 
They  were  remarkable  also  for  the  disgust  of  the 
patient  at  being  condemned  to  wear  a specially  con- 
trived and  hideous  kind  of  pig’s-snout  respirator  for 
the  inhalation  of  pine-oil,  as  related  in  a well  known 
rhyming  letter  of  the  time  to  Henley.  But  from  the* 
second  Highland  summer  dates  another  vivid  recollec- 
tion. While  his  wife  remained  with  his  parents  at 
Edinburgh,  I spent  two  or  three  weeks  of  radiant 
weather  alone  with  him  in  the  old  hotel  at  Kingussie 
in  Inverness-shire.  He  had  little  strength  either  for 
work  or  exercise  but  managed  to  draft  the  tale  The 
Treasure  of  Franchard , and  rejoiced  in  lying  out  for 
hours  at  a time  half  stripped  in  the  sun,  nearly  accord- 
ing to  that  manner  of  sun-bath  since  so  much  prescribed 
by  physicians  in  Germany.  The  burn  or  mountain 
streamlet  at  the  back  of  Kingussie  village  is  for  about 
a mile  of  its  course  after  it  leaves  the  moor  one  of  the 
most  varied  and  beautiful  in  Scotland,  racing  with  a 
hundred  little  falls  and  lynns  beside  the  margin  of  an 
enchanting  fir-belted,  green  and  dingled  oval  glade. 
The  glade,  alas,  has  long  ago  been  invaded  and  annexed 
by  golfers,  enemies  to  peace  ; and  even  the  approaches 
to  the  burn  from  the  village  have,  I understand,  been 
ruined  by  the  erection  of  a great  modern  distillery. 
But  in  the  year  1882  we  had  these  haunts  to  ourselves. 
Stevenson  used  to  spend  hours  exploring  the  recesses 
of  the  burn’s  course,  musing,  sometimes  with  and 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


135 


sometimes  without  speech,  on  its  endless  chances  and 
caprices  of  eddy  and  ripple  and  back-set,  its  branchings 
and  reunitings,  alternations  of  race  and  pool,  bustle 
and  pause,  and  on  the  images  of  human  life,  free-will, 
and  destiny  presented  by  the  careers  of  the  sticks 
and  leaves  he  found  or  launched  upon  its  course. 
One  result  of  these  musings  occurs  in  a dramatic  scene 
familiar  to  all  who  have  read  his  fragment.  The 
Great  North  Road.  Of  other  talk  what  I remember 
best  is  the  entertainment  with  which  he  read  for  the 
first  time  Leigh  Hunt’s  milk-and-water  dilution  of 
Dante  in  his  poem  Francesca  da  Rimini  (or  Nimini - 
pimini  as  Byron  re-christened  it),  and  of  the  laughing 
parodies  which  bubbled  over  from  him  on  those  passages 
of  tea-party  sentiment  and  cockney  bathos  that  disfigure 
it.  Some  kind  of  play,  too,  I remember  which  he 
insisted  on  starting  and  keeping  up,  and  wherein  he 
invested  his  companion  (that  was  me)  with  the  imagin- 
ary character  of  a roystering  blade  in  a white  greatcoat 
and  knobstick  making  scandal  in  the  Highland  village, 
and  himself  with  that  of  a sedate  and  friendly  burgess 
hard  put  to  it  to  save  me  from  the  hands  of  the  police. 

The  following  winter  took  the  Stevensons  to  the 
Proven9al  coast,  but  to  haunts  there  at  some  distance 
from  those  he  had  known  ten  years  ago.  After  some 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  settle  near  Marseilles  (Steven- 
son always  loved  the  colour  and  character  of  that 
mighty  Mediterranean  and  cosmopolitan  trading-port), 
they  were  established  by  March,  1884,  in  the  Chalet 
la  Solitude  on  the  hill  behind  Hyeres  ; and  on  that 
charming  site  he  enjoyed  the  best  months  of  health 


136 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  happiness  he  ever  knew,  at  least  on  the  European 
continent.  His  various  expressions  in  prose  and  verse 
of  pleasure  in  his  life  there  are  well-known.  For 
instance,  the  following  from  a letter  to  Mr.  Gosse  : — 
“ This  spot,  our  garden  and  our  view,  are  sub-celestial. 
I sing  daily  with  my  Bunyan,  that  great  bard, 

‘ I dwell  already  the  next  door  to  Heaven  ! * 

If  you  could  see  my  roses,  and  my  aloes,  and  my  fig- 
marigolds,  and  my  olives,  and  my  view  over  a plain, 
and  my  view  of  certain  mountains  as  graceful  as  Apollo, 
as  severe  as  Zeus,  you  would  not  think  the  phrase 
exaggerated.”  One  or  two  sets  of  verses  dallying 
with  the  notion  that  here  might  be  his  permanent  home 
and  anchorage  have  only  lately  been  published.  I 
give  another  set  written  in  a somewhat  homelier  strain, 
which  I think  has  not  yet  found  its  way  into  print : — 

My  wife  and  I,  in  our  romantic  cot, 

The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot, 

High  as  the  gods  upon  Olympus  dwell. 

Pleased  with  the  things  we  have,  and  pleased  as  well 
To  wait  in  hope  for  those  which  we  have  not. 

She  burns  in  ardour  for  a horse  to  trot ; 

I pledge  my  votive  powers  upon  a yacht ; 

Which  shall  be  first  remembered,  who  can  tell — 

My  wife  or  I ? 

Harvests  of  flowers  o’er  all  our  garden-plot 
She  dreams  ; and  I to  enrich  a darker  spot, 

My  unprovided  cellar  ; both  to  swell 
Our  narrow  cottage  huge  as  a hotel, 

That  portly  friends  may  come  and  share  our  lot — 

My  wife  and  I, 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


137 


The  first  friend  to  come  was  one  not  physically 
corresponding  to  the  adjective,  namely  myself.  It 
was  the  moment  when  the  Southern  spring  was  in  its 
first  flush  and  freshness,  and  the  days  and  evenings 
sped  gloriously.  Everything,  down  to  the  deche  or 
money  pinch  to  which  recent  expenses  had  reduced 
him,  or  the  misdeeds  of  the  black  Skye-terrier  Woggs, 
the  most  engaging,  petted,  ill-conducted  and  cajoling 
little  thorough-bred  rascal  of  his  race,  was  turned  by 
Stevenson  into  a matter  of  abounding  delight  or  diver- 
sion. No  schemes  of  work  could  for  the  time  being 
seem  too  many  or  too  arduous.  A flow  of  verse,  more 
continuous  and  varied  than  ever  before,  had  set  in 
from  him.  Besides  many  occasional  pieces  expressing 
intimate  moods  of  the  moment  with  little  care  or  finish, 
and  never  intended  for  any  eye  but  his  own,  those  of 
the  special  Child's  Garden  series  were  nearly  com- 
pleted ; and  they  and  their  dedication,  as  in  duty 
bound,  to  his  old  nurse  Alison  Cunningham  had  to 
be  canvassed  between  us.  So  had  a much  more  arduous 
matter,  the  scheme  and  style  of  Prince  Otto , its 
general  idea  having  gradually,  under  much  discussion, 
been  evolved  from  an  earlier  one  where  the  problems 
and  characters  would  have  been  similar  but  the  setting 
and  date  Oriental  and  remote.  So  had  a scheme  to 
be  put  in  hand  next  after  that,  namely,  a new  tale 
for  boys ; this  time  a historical  tale,  which  duly  took 
shape  as  The  Black  Arrow , to  be  slighted  later  on, 
quite  unjustly  as  I have  always  thought,  by  its  author 
and  his  family  as  “ tushery.” 

One  day,  looking  from  one  of  the  hill  terraces  from 


138 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


near  his  house  at  the  group  of  islets  (the  isles  of  Hyeres) 
in  the  offing,  we  had  let  our  talk  wander  to  famous 
and  more  distant  archipelagoes  of  the  same  inland 
sea.  I spoke  of  the  likeness  in  unlikeness  which 
strikes  the  traveller  between  the  noble  outlines  and 
colours  of  the  Ionian  group,  as  they  rise  facing  the 
coasts  of  Acarnania,  Elis,  and  Epirus,  and  those  of 
the  group  of  the  Inner  Hebrides  over  against  the  shores 
of  Ross  and  Argyleshire.  We  ran  over  the  blunt 
monosyllabic  names  of  some  of  the  Hebridean  group — 
Coll,  Mull,  Eigg,  Rum,  Muck,  and  Skye — and  contrasted 
them  with  the  euphonious  Greek  sounds,  Leucadia, 
Cephalonia,  Ithaca,  Zante  or  Zacynthos  (“  Jam  medio 
apparet  fluctu  nemorosa  Zacynthos  55  had  for  some 
unaccountable  reason  been  Stevenson’s  favourite  line 
of  Virgil  from  boyhood,  and  he  goes  out  of  his  way  to 
make  occasion  for  one  of  his  characters  to  quote  it 
in  almost  the  latest  of  his  sea-tales,  The  Ebb  Tide). 
And  we  speculated  on  a book  to  be  written  that  should 
try  to  strike  the  several  notes  of  these  two  island  regions, 
of  their  scenery,  inhabitants,  and  traditions,  of  Greek 
and  Gaelic  lay  and  legend,  and  the  elements  of  Homeric 
and  Ossianic  poetry.  I think  the  idea  was  no  bad 
one,  and  that  perhaps  such  a book  has  still  to  be,  and 
will  some  day  be,  written.  But  Stevenson,  with  his 
lack  of  Greek  and  of  the  Greek  scholar’s  special 
enthusiasm,  and  the  unlikelihood  of  his  being  able  to 
work  much  in  libraries,  would  perhaps  hardly  have 
been  the  man  to  attempt  it.  Nevertheless,  having 
frequented  the  Hebrides  group  and  drunk  in  its  romance 
from  youth  in  the  lighthouse  yacht,  and  again  on  a 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


139 


special  excursion  with  Sir  Walter  Simpson  in  1874, 
he  was  much  attracted  by  the  scheme.  And  when 
some  eight  months  later,  by  what  I believe  was  a pure 
coincidence,  he  received  a proposal  from  a firm  of 
publishers  that  he  should  take  a cruise  in  the  Greek 
archipelago  with  a view  to  a volume  that  should  tell 
of  his  experiences  in  a manner  something  like  that  of 
his  former  small  volumes  of  travel  in  France,  our  talk 
of  the  spring,  recurring  to  him,  made  him  take  warmly 
to  the  notion.  He  wrote  to  me  at  once  on  the  question 
of  introductions,  and  went  to  Nice,  partly  to  make 
inquiries  about  Mediterranean  steam-packets  and 
partly  to  ask  medical  advice.  The  latter  confirmed,  I 
believe,  what  was  the  judgment  of  his  wife  that  the 
risks  of  the  trip  would  be  too  great ; and  the  idea  was 
dropped. 

In  my  next  glimpse  of  him  there  were  elements  of 
comedy.  I had  gone  for  a few  weeks5  travel  in  Southern 
Italy,  and  meaning  to  return  by  sea  and  across  France 
from  Naples,  with  a very  short  time  to  spare  before 
I was  due  back  in  London,  had  asked  the  Stevensons 
if  they  would  come  and  meet  me  for  a day  or  so  at 
Marseilles.  They  came,  and  it  was  a happy  meeting. 
But  I discovered  that  I had  miscalculated  travelling 
expenses  and  had  not  enough  cash  in  hand  to  finish 
my  homeward  journey.  He  found  himself  in  the  proud 
position  of  being  able  to  help  me,  but  only  at  the  cost 
of  leaving  his  own  pockets  empty.  He  had  to  remain 
in  Marseilles  until  I could  reimburse  him  from  Paris, 
and  amused  himself  with  some  stanzas  in  honour  of  the 
place  and  the  occasion 


140 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


‘ Long  time  I lay  in  little  ease 
Where,  paced  by  the  Turanian, 

Marseilles,  the  many-masted,  sees 
The  blue  Mediterranean. 

Now  songful  in  the  hour  of  sport. 

Now  riotous  for  wages, 

She  camps  around  her  ancient  port, 

An  ancient  of  the  ages. 

Algerian  airs  through  all  the  place 
Unconquerably  sally  ; 

Incomparable  women  pace 
The  shadows  of  the  alley. 

And  high  o’er  dock  and  graving-yard 
And  where  the  sky  is  paler, 

The  Golden  Virgin  of  the  Guard 
Shines,  beckoning  the  sailor. 

She  hears  the  city  roar  on  high, 

Thief,  prostitute,  and  banker : 

She  sees  the  masted  vessels  lie 
Immovably  at  anchor. 

She  sees  the  snowy  islets  dot 
The  sea’s  immortal  azure, 

And  If,  that  castellated  spot, 

Tower,  turret  and  embrazure. 

Here  Dantes  pined  ; and  here  to-day 
Behold  me  his  successor  : 

For  here  imprisoned  long  I lay 
In  pledge  for  a professor  ! ’ * 

* In  the  recent  volume,  “ New  Poems,”  this  little  piece  has 
unluckily  been  published  with  the  misprints  “ placed  ” for  “ paced  ” 
in  the  first  stanza,  “ as  ” for  “ an  ” in  the  second,  and  “ dark  ” 
for  “ dock  ” in  the  fourth  ; the  last  stanza,  which  gives  the  whole 
its  only  point  and  raison  d'etre,  being  left  out.  The  allusions 
concerning  Dantes  and  the  Chateau  d’lf  point,  of  course,  to  the 
Monte  Cristo  of  the  elder  Dumas. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


141 


Seven  or  eight  months  later  a violent  and  all  but 
fatal  return  of  illness  dashed  the  high  hopes  which 
had  been  raised  by  the  happy  Provengal  spring  and 
summer.  An  epidemic  of  cholera  following  made  him 
leave  the  Mediterranean  shore  for  good  and  sent  him 
home  to  England.  He  arrived  to  all  appearance  and 
according  to  almost  all  medical  prognostics  a confirmed 
and  even  hopeless  invalid.  His  home  for  the  next 
three  years  was  at  Bournemouth.  He  was  subject  to 
frequent  haemorrhages  from  the  lung,  any  of  which 
might  have  proved  fatal  and  which  had  to  be  treated 
with  styptic  remedies  of  the  strongest  and  most  nerve- 
shaking  kind.  Much  of  his  life  was  spent  on  the  sofa, 
much  in  that  kind  of  compulsory  silence  which  up 
till  now  had  at  worst  been  only  occasional.  Now 
and  again  a few  weeks  of  respite  enabled  him  to  make 
cautious  excursions,  once  as  far  as  Paris,  once  to 
Matlock,  once  or  more  on  my  invitation  to  Cambridge, 
but  oftenest  to  London.  Here  his  resort  was  not 
to  hotels,  but  as  an  ever-welcome  guest  to  the  official 
house  I had  lately  come  to  inhabit  within  the  gates 
of  the  British  Museum.  His  industry,  maintained 
against  harder  conditions  than  ever,  showed  itself  all 
the  more  indomitable  and  at  last  had  its  reward. 
The  success  of  Treasure  Island  published  before  he 
left  Hyeres,  was  by  the  time  he  settled  at  Bourne- 
mouth beginning  to  make  his  name  a popular  one. 
Two  and  a half  years  later  JelcyU  and  Hyde  raised 
it  suddenly  into  resounding  fame,  and  was  immedi- 
ately followed  by  Kidnapped  which  was  by  common 
consent  acclaimed  as  the  best  Scotch  tale  since  the 


142 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Waverleys.  For  part  of  the  Bournemouth  time  he 
was  also  much  engaged  in  joint  work  with  Henley 
on  the  plays  Admiral  Guinea , Beau  Austin , and 
Macaire : and  upon  this,  the  lustiest  and  not  always 
the  most  considerate  of  guests  and  collaborators,  Mrs. 
Stevenson  found  herself  compelled  in  the  interest  of 
her  husband’s  health  to  lay  restrictions  which  were 
resented,  and  sowed  the  first  seeds,  I think,  of  that 
estrangement  at  heart  of  Henley  from  his  friend  so 
lamentably  proclaimed  by  him  in  public  after  Steven- 
son’s death. 

Ill  as  he  was  in  these  years,  Stevenson  was  able  to 
bind  to  himself  in  close  friendship  not  a few  new-comers, 
including  two  eminent  Americans,  Henry  James  and 
the  painter  J.  S.  Sargent.  I went  down  myself  from 
time  to  time,  and  enjoyed  his  company  not  less,  only 
with  more  of  anxiety  and  misgiving,  than  of  old. 
Sargent’s  little  picture  showing  him  indescribably 
lean  in  his  velvet  jacket  as  he  paces  to  and  fro  twirling 
his  moustache  with  one  hand  and  holding  his  cigarette 
in  the  other  as  he  talks — St.  Gaudens’s  bronze  relief 
of  him  propped  on  pillows  on  the  sofa  (the  latter  a 
work  done  two  or  three  years  later  in  America) — these 
tally  pretty  closely  in  their  different  ways  with  the 
images  I carry  in  my  mind  of  his  customary  looks  and 
attitudes  in  those  Bournemouth  days.  Always  except 
once  I found  him  as  cheerful  as  ever,  and  as  vivid  a 
focus  of  cheerfulness.  The  sole  exception  remains 
deeply  printed  on  my  memory.  I had  followed  him 
from  the  house  into  the  garden  ; he  was  leaning  with 
his  back  to  me  looking  out  from  the  garden  gate  ; as  he 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


143 


heard  me  approach,  he  turned  round  upon  me  a face 
such  as  I never  saw  on  him  save  that  once — a face  of 
utter  despondency,  nay  tragedy,  upon  which  seemed 
stamped  for  one  concentrated  moment  the  expression 
of  all  he  had  ever  had,  or  might  yet  have,  in  life  to 
suffer  or  to  renounce.  Such  a countenance  was  not 
to  be  accosted,  and  I left  him.  During  his  visits  to 
my  house  at  the  British  Museum — ■“  the  many-pillared 
and  the  well-beloved,”  as  he  calls  it  in  the  well-known 
set  of  verses,  as  though  the  keepers’  houses  stood 
within  the  great  front  colonnade  of  the  museum,  which 
they  do  not,  but  project  in  advance  of  it  on  either  flank 
— during  such  visits  he  never  showed  anything  but 
the  old  charm  and  high  courage  and  patience.  He 
was  able  to  enjoy  something  of  the  company  of  famous 
seniors  who  came  seeking  his  acquaintance,  as  Browning, 
Lowell,  Burne-Jones.  With  such  visitors  I usually 
left  him  alone,  and  have  at  any  rate  no  detailed  notes 
or  memories  of  conversations  held  by  him  with  them 
in  my  presence.  What  I remember  most  vividly  was 
how  one  day  I came  in  from  my  work  and  found 
the  servants,  who  were  devoted  to  him,  waiting  for 
me  in  the  hall  with  scared  faces.  He  had  had  a worse 
haemorrhage  than  usual,  and  lay  propped  on  his  pillows 
in  his  red  dressing-gown  with  pencil  in  hand  and 
foolscap  paper  against  his  knees.  He  greeted  me  with 
finger  on  lip  and  a smile  half  humorous  half  ruefully 
deprecating,  as  though  in  apology  for  being  so  trouble- 
some a guest ; handing  me  at  the  same  time  a sheet 
on  which  he  had  written  the  words  from  Falstaff, 
“ ’Tis  my  vocation,  Hal.”  Then,  with  a changed 


144 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


look  of  expectant  curiosity  and  adventure,  he  wrote, 
“ Do  you  think  it  will  faucher  me  this  time  ? ” (French 
faucher,  to  mow  down,  to  kill,  make  an  end  of.)  I 
forget  how  the  conversation,  spoken  on  my  side, 
written  on  his,  went  on.  With  his  intimates  and  those 
of  his  household  he  held  many  such,  and  it  would  have 
been  interesting  to  keep  the  sheets  on  which  his  side 
of  the  talk,  often  illustrated  with  comic  sketches,  was 
set  down.  So  would  it  have  been  interesting  to  keep 
another  record  of  the  same  illness,  namely  the  little 
lumps  or  pats  of  modellers’  wax  which  he  asked  me 
to  get  for  him  and  with  which,  when  he  could  not  talk, 
read  or  write,  he  amused  himself  moulding  tiny  scenes 
with  figures  and  landscapes  in  relief.  These  were 
technically  childish,  of  course,  but  had  always,  like 
the  woodcuts  done  to  amuse  his  stepson  at  Davos,  a 
touch  of  lively  expressiveness  and  character.  Some 
dozens  of  them,  I remember,  he  finished,  but  no  vestige 
of  them  remains.  They  were  put  into  a drawer,  dried, 
cracked,  and  were  thrown  away. 

My  next  vision  of  him  is  the  last,  and  shows  him 
as  he  stood  with  his  family  looking  down  upon  me 
over  the  rail  of  the  outward-bound  steamship  Lud- 
gate  Hill  while  I waved  a parting  hand  to  him  from 
a boat  in  the  Thames  by  Tilbury  Dock.  From  our 
first  meeting  in  Suffolk  until  his  return  with  his  wife 
from  California  in  1880  had  been  one  spell  of  seven 
years.  From  that  return  until  his  fresh  departure 
in  1887  had  been  another.  Now  followed  the  winter 
spent  at  Saranac  Lake  in  the  Adirondack  mountains ; 
the  two  years  and  odd  months  of  cruising  among  the 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


145 


various  archipelagoes  of  the  Pacific — the  Marquesas, 
the  Paumotus,  the  Society  Islands,  the  Sandwich 
group,  Samoa,  the  Gilberts  again,  the  Marshalls.  The 
lure  of  the  South  Seas  and  the  renewed  capacity  for 
out-door  life  and  adventure  he  found  in  himself  during 
these  voyagings  had  gradually  forced  upon  both 
Stevenson  and  his  wife  the  conclusion  that  there  was 
but  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  that  was  to  settle 
somewhere  in  the  Pacific  for  good.  He  had  written 
as  much  to  his  friends  in  England,  telling  them  at  the 
same  time  of  the  property  he  had  bought  in  Samoa 
and  on  which  he  proposed  to  build  himself  a home. 
Several  earlier  letters  which  would  have  prepared  us 
for  this  news  had  miscarried,  so  that  when  the  announce- 
ment came  it  was  a rude  shock  to  those  who  loved 
him  and  were  looking  forward  eagerly  to  his  return. 
At  Sydney,  in  August,  1890,  he  received  our  replies. 
Mine  was  of  a tenor  which  cut  the  warm  hearts  of 
both  the  pair  to  the  quick,  although  not  serving  to 
deflect  their  purpose.  In  spite  of  the  fine  work  he 
had  done  during  his  voyages,  I persuaded  myself 
that  from  living  permanently  in  that  outlandish 
world  and  far  from  cultivated  society  both  he  and  his 
writing  must  deteriorate,  and  wrote  warning  him  as 
much  in  plain  terms.  Translating  unconsciously  my 
own  need  and  desire  for  his  company  into  a persuasion 
that  mine  was  needed,  as  of  old,  for  criticism  and 
suggestion  to  him  in  his  work,  and  that  he  no  longer 
valued  it,  I wrote  reproachfully,  pleading  against  and 
prophesying  evil  from  his  purpose.  He  and  his  wife 
both  set  themselves  then  and  there  to  justify  their 


146 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


decision  in  letters  of  which,  reverting  to  them  now 
after  thirty  years,  I find  the  terms  infinitely  touching 
and  too  sacred  almost  to  quote.  Referring  to  one  of 
his  recent  cruises,  Stevenson  says : — 

We  had  a very  delightful  voyage  for  some  part ; it  would  have 
been  delightful  to  the  end  had  my  health  held  out.  That  it  did 
not,  I attribute  to  savage  hard  work  in  a wild  cabin  heated  like 
the  Babylonian  furnace,  four  plies  of  blotting-paper  under  my  wet 
hand  and  the  drops  trailing  from  my  brow.  For  God’s  sake  don’t 
start  in  to  blame  Fanny  : often  enough  she  besought  me  not  to 
go  on  : but  I did  my  work  while  I was  a bedridden  worm  in  England, 
and  please  God  I shall  do  my  work  until  I burst.  I do  not  know 
any  other  virtue  that  I possess  ; and  indeed  there  are  few  others 
I prize  alongside  of  it.  Only,  one  other  I have  : I love  my  friends, 
and  I don’t  like  to  hear  the  most  beloved  of  all  casting  doubt  on 
that  affection.  Did  you  not  get  the  verses  I sent  you  from  Ape- 
mama  ? I guess  they  were  not  A1  verses,  but  they  expressed 
something  you  surely  could  not  doubt.*  But  perhaps  all  my 
letters  have  miscarried  ? A sorrow  on  correspondence  ! If  this 
miscarry  too  ? See  here  : if  by  any  chance  this  should  come  to 
your  hand,  understand  once  and  for  all  that  since  my  dear  wild 
noble  father  died  no  head  on  earth  is  more  precious  to  my  thoughts 
than  yours.  . . . But  all  this  talk  is  useless.  Know  this,  I love 
you,  and  since  I am  speaking  plainly  for  once,  I bind  it  upon  you 
as  a sacred  duty,  should  you  be  dangerously  ill,  I must  be  sum- 
moned. I will  never  forgive  you  if  I am  not.  So  long  as  there 
is  no  danger,  I do  well,  do  I not  ? — to  consider  conditions  necessary 
to  my  work  and  health.  I have  a charge  of  souls  ; I keep  many 
eating  and  drinking  ; my  continued  life  has  a value  of  its  own ; 
and  I cannot  but  feel  it.  But  I have  to  see  you  again.  That  is 
sure.  And — how  strangely  we  are  made  ! — I see  no  harm  in  my 

* These  are  the  verses  “ To  S.  C.”  afterwards  printed  as  No. 
XXXVI  in  the  volume  Songs  of  Travel.  In  point  of  fact  the 
package  containing  them  had  for  the  time  being  failed  to  reach  me. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON' 


147 


dying  like  a burst  pig  upon  some  outlandish  island,  but  if  you 
died,  without  due  notice  and  a chance  for  me  to  see  you,  I should 
count  it  a disloyalty. 

Here  Stevenson’s  hand  has  failed  and  his  wife  takes 
up  the  letter,  and  in  many  urgent,  not  less  affectionate 
phrases  continues  to  enforce  his  plea : — 

Dear  Custodian, — 

I hardly  dare  use  that  word  with  the  knowledge  in  my  heart 
that  we  intend  to  remove  our  bodily  selves  from  out  your  custody* 
but  as  you  know  it  will  be  our  vile  bodies  only  ; spiritually  we  are 
yours  and  always  shall  be.  Neither  time  nor  space  can  change  us 
in  that.  You  told  me  when  we  left  England  if  we  found  a place 
where  Louis  was  really  well  to  stay  there.  It  really  seems  that 
anywhere  in  the  South  Seas  will  do.  Ever  since  we  have  been  here 
we  have  been  on  the  outlook  for  a spot  that  combines  the  most 
advantages.  In  some  way  I preferred  the  Marquesas,  the  climate 
being  perfect  and  the  natives  people  that  I admired  and  loved. 
The  only  suitable  place  on  the  Sandwich  islands  is  at  the  foot  of 
a volcano  where  we  should  have  to  live  upon  black  lava  and  trust 
to  rain  for  water.  Besides  I could  not  bear  the  white  population. 
All  things  considered,  Samoa  took  our  fancy  the  most ; there  are 
three  opportunities  each  month  to  communicate  with  England  by 
telegraph  from  Auckland,  Auckland  being  from  seven  to  eight 
days’  steam  distance  from  us.  You  could  hardly  believe  your 
own  eyes  if  you  could  see  Louis  in  his  present  state  of  almost  rude 
health,  no  cough,  no  haemorrhage,  no  night  sweats.  He  rides 
and  walks  as  much  as  he  likes  without  any  fatigue,  and  in  fact 
lives  the  life  of  a man  who  is  well.  I tremble  when  I think  of  a 
return  to  England. 

He  never  returned  to  England,  and  a third  spell 
of  seven  years  in  his  life  had  just  been  completed  when 
on  one  gloomy,  gusty,  sodden  December  day  in  1884, 
I came  down  from  lunching  with  Sir  Harry  Johnston, 


148 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  African  traveller  and  administrator,  in  the  upper 
floor  of  a Government  office  in  Westminster,  and  saw 
newspaper  posters  flapping  dankly  in  the  street  corners, 
with  the  words  “ Death  of  R.  L.  Stevenson  ” printed 
large  upon  them.  The  Pacific  voyages  and  the  island 
life  had,  or  seemed  to  have,  effectually  healed  his 
troubles  of  nerve,  throat,  and  lung;  but  the  old 
arterial  weakness  remained,  and  after  so  many  years 
of  unsparing  mental  toil  the  bursting  of  a blood-vessel 
in  his  brain  had  laid  him  low  at  the  critical  moment  of 
his  fully  ripening  power. 

During  that  third  and  last  period  the  day-dreams 
of  the  Mentone  days  had  after  all  and  in  spite  of  all 
and  against  all  likelihood  been  realized  for  him.  Fame 
as  a writer  even  beyond  his  aspirations  had  come  to  be 
his.  Of  voyagings  in  far-off  oceans,  of  happy  out-door 
activities  and  busy  beneficent  responsibilities  in  roman- 
tic circumstances  and  outlandish  scenes,  he  had  had  his 
fill.  Withal  his  love  of  his  old  friends  had  amid  his 
new  experiences  and  successes  never  weakened.  Of 
this  no  one  had  ampler  or  more  solid  proofs  than  I. 
That  amidst  all  his  other  absorbing  interests,  and  in 
spite  of  his  ever-growing  passion  and  assiduity  in 
literary  work,  he  should  never  once  have  failed  in 
sending  off  to  me  his  regular  full  budget  of  a monthly 
letter,  either  written  with  his  own  hand  or  dictated 
to  his  step-daughter,  would  have  been  proof  enough  in 
itself  of  such  steadfastness.  On  the  side  of  his  friends 
at  home,  speaking  at  least  for  myself,  I fear  that  our 
joy  in  the  news  of  his  returning  strength  and  activity 
had  been  tempered  by  something  of  latent  jealousy 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


149 


that  so  much  good  could  befall  him  without  help  of 
ours  and  at  a distance  of  half  the  world  away  from  us. 
I know  that  I was  inclined  to  be  hypercritical  about 
the  quality  and  value  of  some  of  the  work  sent  home 
from  the  Pacific.  I thought  the  series  of  papers 
afterwards  arranged  into  the  volume  In  the  South 
Seas  overloaded  with  information  and  the  results  of 
study,  and  disappointingly  lacking  in  the  thrill  and 
romance  one  expected  of  him  in  relating  experiences 
which  had  realized  the  dream  of  his  youth.  (I  ought 
to  mention  that  a far  better  qualified  judge,  Mr.  Joseph 
Conrad,  differs  from  me  in  this,  and  even  prefers  In 
the  South  Seas  to  Treasure  Island , principally  for 
the  sake  of  what  he  regards  as  a very  masterpiece 
of  native  portraiture  in  the  character  of  Tembinok, 
King  of  Apemama.) 

Again,  I thought  it  a pity  that  Stevenson  should 
spend  so  much  toil  in  setting  out,  in  the  volume  A 
Footnote  to  History , the  details  of  certain  complicated, 
very  remote  and  petty  recent  affairs  in  which  none 
except  perhaps  a few  international  diplomatists  could 
well  be  expected  to  take  interest.  Of  his  work  in 
fiction  dealing  with  the  islands,  I thought  most  of 
The  Wrecker  below  his  mark,  and  The  Ebb  Tide , 
at  least  the  first  half  of  it,  a comparatively  dull  and 
rather  brutal  piece  of  realism.  True,  these  were  col- 
laboration pieces ; and  of  island  stories  there  was 
The  Beach  of  Falesd , and  of  Scottish  tales  Catriona , 
which  were  all  his  own  and  of  which  the  quality  should 
have  fully  re-assured  one  (the  master-fragment  Weir 
of  Hermiston  was  of  course  unknown  to  us  till  after 


150 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


his  death).  But  thinking  as  I did,  I said  so  in  my  letters 
with  the  old  frankness,  causing  him  for  once  a shade 
of  displeasure : for  he  wrote  to  me  that  I was  being 
a little  too  Cockney  with  him,  and  to  a common 
friend  that  I was  getting  to  be  something  of  an  auld 
wife  with  my  criticisms.  Well,  well,  perhaps  I was, 
perhaps  not.  But  at  any  rate  I have  proof  in  full 
measure  that  his  affection  for  and  memory  of  me  sur- 
vived and  underwent  no  change.  One  such  proof,  scarce 
less  surprising  than  endearing,  came  to  me  but  the 
other  day,  long  after  his  death,  in  the  shape  of  a bulky 
packet  sent  to  me  by  his  representatives  in  America. 
On  opening  the  packet  I found  that  it  contained 
almost  the  whole  mass  of  my  letters  written  to  him 
from  the  beginning  of  our  friendship  to  the  end.  Con- 
sidering the  vagrant  habits  of  his  youth,  his  long  dislike 
of  and  detachment  from  all  the  ordinary  impedimenta 
of  life,  his  frequent  changes  of  abode  even  after  marriage 
and  success  had  made  of  him  a comparatively  settled 
and  propertied  man — considering  these  things,  that 
he  should  have  cumbered  himself  by  the  preservation 
of  so  bulky  a correspondence  was  a thing  to  me  natur- 
ally undreamed  of  and  when  discovered  infinitely 
touching.  As  concerns  my  regard  and  regret  for  him, 
— there  has  been  hardly  a day  in  the  thirty  and  odd 
years  since  he  left  us  on  which  I,  like  others  who  loved 
him,  have  not  missed  him.  His  cousin  Bob  Stevenson, 
in  some  gifts  and  brilliancies  almost  his  match,  used 
to  vow  that  the  chief  interest  of  anything  which 
happened  was  to  hear  what  Louis  would  say  about  it. 
World-events  in  war  and  politics  and  mankind’s 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


151 


material  experiments  and  physical  conquests  in  the 
last  few  years  have  been  too  tremendous  in  themselves 
for  so  much  to  be  said  of  any  man  without  absurdity. 
But  want  him  and  long  for  him  one  does,  to  hear  him 
talk  both  of  them  and  of  a thousand  lesser  things : 
most  of  all  perhaps  of  those  writers  who  have  stepped 
into  fame  since  his  time.  If  we  could  have  him  back 
among  us,  as  one  sometimes  has  him  in  day-dreams, 
how  we,  his  old  friends  and  comrades  in  letters — but 
alas  ! with  what  gaps  among  us,  Henry  James  gone, 
Andrew  Lang  gone,  and  so  many  others — how  would 
we  make  haste  to  gather  about  him  : and  when  we 
had  had  our  turn,  how  eagerly  would  he  look  round  for 
the  younger  fellow-craftsmen,  Sir  James  Barrie,  Mr. 
Kipling — not  now  indeed  so  young — whose  promise 
he  had  recognized  and  with  whom  in  his  last  years  he 
had  exchanged  greetings  across  the  ocean.  Of  those 
who  had  not  begun  to  publish  before  he  died  the  man 
I imagine  him  calling  for  first  of  all  is  the  above- 
mentioned  Mr.  Conrad.  Some  time  about  1880-90 
these  two  seafarers,  the  Polish  gentleman  turned 
British  merchant-skipper  and  the  ocean-loving  author 
cruising  far  and  wide  in  search  of  health,  might  quite 
well  have  met  in  life,  only  that  the  archipelago  of  Mr. 
Conrad’s  chief  experiences  was  the  Malay,  that  of 
Stevenson’s  the  Polynesian.  Could  my  dream  be 
fulfilled,  how  they  would  delight  in  meeting  now. 
What  endless  ocean  and  island  yarns  the  two  would 
exchange  ; how  happily  they  would  debate  the  methods 
and  achievements  of  their  common  art ; and  how- 
difficult  it  would  be  to  part  them  ! As  I let  myself 


152 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


imagine  such  meeting,  I know  not  which  of  the  two 
presences  is  the  more  real  and  near  to  me,  yours,  my 
good  friend  Conrad,  whom  I hope  and  mean  to  greet 
in  the  flesh  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  or  the  next,  or 
that  of  Stevenson,  since  my  last  sight  of  whom,  as  he 
waved  good-bye  to  me  from  the  deck  of  the  “ Ludgate 
Hill,”  I know  as  a fact  of  arithmetic,  but  can  in  no 
other  sense  realize,  that  there  has  passed  a spell  of 
no  less  than  fonr-and-thirty  years  or  the  life-time  of 
a whole  generation. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FLEEMING  AND  ANNE  JENKIN 

Among  the  very  few  seniors  of  note  or  standing  in 
Edinburgh  who  had  seen  the  promise  that  lay  under 
Stevenson’s  questionable,  to  some  eyes  merely  rakish, 
outside  in  youth  were  Eleeming  Jenkin,  the  professor 
of  mechanical  engineering,  and  his  wife.  The  names 
of  these  two  are  not  so  famous  as  most  of  those  to 
which  I have  given  a separate  chapter  in  this  book. 
But  alike  by  gift  and  character  they  were  a very 
remarkable  couple,  each  of  them  possessed  of  talents 
which  in  their  several  ways  fell  barely  short  of  genius. 
Stevenson  lived  to  repay  the  debt  his  youth  had  owed 
to  the  kindness  and  insight  of  these  friends  by  writing 
a full  biography  of  Jenkin,  whom  a chance  blood- 
poisoning  carried  off  suddenly  and  prematurely,  in 
the  mid  exercise  of  unabated  energies  and  the  full 
glow  of  anticipated  achievement.  His  widow  survived 
him  six  and  thirty  years,  dying  but  the  other  day  and 
reducing  almost  below  computation  the  number  of 
those  still  living  who  can  remember  Stevenson  in  his 
youth. 

The  story  of  Eleeming  Jenkin’s  life  may  be  quickly 
told.  He  was  born  in  1833.  By  his  father’s  side  he 

153 


154 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


came  of  a Welsh  stock  settled  in  Kent ; his  mother, 
born  in  Jamaica  of  Scottish  parentage,  was  a lady  of 
talent  and  spirit,  the  author  of  novels  which  had  a 
reputation  in  their  day, — Cousin  Stella , Who  Breaks 
Pays , Two  French  Marriages,  etc.  Both  these  parents, 
dying  at  an  unusual  old  age  within  a few  hours  of 
each  other,  our  friend  Fleeming  had,  when  death 
overtook  him,  but  lately  carried  to  their  graves. 
The  experiences  of  his  youth  had  been  both  varied 
and  vivid.  He  was  at  school  first  at  Jedburgh,  then 
at  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  then  in  Paris,  where  he 
was  an  eager  witness  of  the  scenes  of  revolution  in 
1848.  Thence  he  went  to  the  University  of  Genoa, 
where  he  took  a degree  in  1850,  and  immediately 
afterwards  began  the  practical  business  of  his  life  in  an 
engineer’s  workshop.  One  result  of  this  cosmopolitan 
training  on  his  exact  and  retentive  mind  was  a life- 
long mastery,  more  thorough  than  that  of  most  profess- 
ing linguists,  of  the  three  chief  European  languages. 
Returning  to  England  at  eighteen,  Jenkin  worked  for 
the  next  six  years  under  several  firms  successively, 
chiefly  at  railway  enterprises  in  England  and  abroad ; 
next  for  several  years,  in  connection  with  Sir  William 
Thomson,  at  the  manufacture,  testing,  and  laying  down 
of  several  of  the  great  submarine  telegraph  lines.  There- 
after he  held,  in  English  and  European  repute,  a place 
as  one  of  the  first,  both  theoretically  and  practically, 
of  living  electrical  engineers.  In  1859  he  had  married 
the  daughter  of  Alfred  Austin,  Esq.,  C.B.,  a lady  sharing 
in  full  measure  the  gifts  that  have  distinguished  her 
family.  From  1861  to  1868  he  carried  on  a business 


FLEEMING  AND  ANNE  JENKIN 


1 55 


of  his  own  in  London,  and  in  the  latter  year  was  called 
to  the  professorship  of  engineering  at  Edinburgh, 
having  for  two  years  already  filled  a corresponding 
chair  at  University  College.  At  Edinburgh  he  con- 
tinued to  reside  until  his  death  : energetic  and  success- 
ful in  teaching,  indefatigable  in  invention  and  in  the 
application  of  science  to  human  necessities.  For  the 
last  two  years  a large  part — unhappily  too  large — of 
his  energies  was  thrown  into  the  working  out  of  a 
system  he  had  invented  of  cheap  electrical  transport, 
adapted  especially  for  short  distances  and  relatively 
light  freights.  This  system  he  called  “ Telpherage,” 
and  believed  ardently  in  its  practical  usefulness  and 
future  commercial  importance.  Presumably  the  effec- 
tual sagacity  and  foresight  which  had  up  till  then 
distinguished  his  professional  career  had  in  this  instance 
failed  him,  seeing  that  his  invention,  at  least  in  the 
form  in  which  he  conceived  it,  has  not,  I learn,  taken 
root.  The  anxiety  and  overwork  involved  in  connec- 
tion with  it  had  somewhat  shaken  the  ordinary  robust- 
ness of  his  health  ; but  he  seemed  to  have  quite  recov- 
ered, when  a slight  operation,  for  the  remedy  of  a 
mischief  not  alarming,  brought  on  the  illness  which 
snatched  him  suddenly  from  among  us. 

Of  the  main  business  of  Jenkin’s  career  as  above 
stated,  as  well  as  of  his  vigorous  and  fruitful  initiative 
in  the  matters  of  technical  education,  of  the  organiza- 
tion of  sanitary  inspection  and  reform,  and  the  like, 
I speak  with  little  understanding.  But  it  was  the 
secondary  labours — the  ir apepya — of  his  life  that 
impressed  those  of  his  friends  who,  like  myself,  could 


156 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


only  take  other  people’s  judgments  on  his  main  work, 
with  so  strong  a sense  of  the  extraordinary  vigour 
and  variety  of  his  powers.  You  were  always  making 
the  discovery  of  some  new  attainment  or  proficiency 
in  him  of  which  he  would  show  no  sign  until  the  occasion 
for  it  naturally  arose.  There  was  no  discussion  in 
which  he  would  not  join,  and  no  subject  in  which  he 
did  not  take  an  interest ; and  such  were  his  natural 
keenness  of  apprehension,  and  integrity  and  acuteness 
of  judgment,  that  there  seemed  almost  none  on  which 
he  was  not  able  to  throw  light.  Attention  was  called 
not  long  after  his  death  to  the  circumstance  that  out 
of  four  elaborate  studies  on  subjects  not  especially 
his  own,  which  he  contributed  to  the  North  British 
Review , three  were  highly  valued,  and  their  conclusions 
cordially  adopted,  by  the  authors  criticized,  among 
whom  were  such  masters  in  divers  fields  as  the  great 
naturalist  Darwin  and  the  great  Latinist  H.  A.  J. 
Munro.  Sir  Henry  Irving,  I always  understood,  was 
forward  during  Jenkin’s  lifetime  to  acknowledge  the 
value  of  his  private  and  published  criticisms  on  stage- 
craft and  the  actor’s  art.  The  classical  student  who 
turns  to  his  review  of  Browning’s  Agamemnon  and 
Campbell’s  Trachinice  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  for 
1 878  * will  certainly  not  close  it  without  a sense  of  added 
insight  into  the  spirit  and  conduct  of  the  Greek  drama. 
On  questions  of  art  and  literature  this  man  of  science 
and  of  inventions  was  singularly  well  worth  hearing, 
though  often  one-sided  and  dogmatic.  In  art  he  valued 

* Reprinted  in  Papers  of  Fleeming  Jenkin  (Longmans,  1887), 
p.  3. 


FLEEMING  AND  ANNE  JENKIN 


157 


above  all  the  spirit  of  classic  grace  and  beauty,  but  was 
sometimes  taken  in  by  its  counterfeit.  In  imaginative 
literature  he  cared  first  for  the  force  and  reality  of 
the  human  emotions  expressed,  next  for  the  structure 
and  evolution  of  the  fable,  and  little,  comparatively, 
for  matters  of  form  and  style  apart  from  these. 

The  variety  and  genuineness  of  Jenkin’s  intellectual 
interests  proceeded  in  truth  from  the  keenness  and 
healthiness  of  his  interest  in  life  itself.  Such  keenness 
shone  visibly  from  his  looks,  which  were  not  handsome 
but  in  the  highest  degree  animated,  sparkling,  and 
engaging,  the  very  warts  on  his  countenance  seeming 
to  heighten  the  vivacity  of  its  expression.  The 
amount  of  his  vital  energy  was  extraordinary,  and  no 
man  ever  took  his  own  experience  with  more  zest  or 
entered  with  a readier  sympathy  into  that  of  others. 
An  honest  blow  he  was  always  prepared  to  take,  and 
every  honest  pleasure  he  relished  with  delight.  He 
loved  to  do  well  all  he  did,  and  to  take  not  only  a part, 
but  a lead,  in  bodily  and  other  pastimes,  as  shooting, 
fishing,  mountaineering,  yachting,  skating,  dancing, 
acting  and  the  rest.  But  in  conversation  and  human 
intercourse  lay  perhaps  his  chief  pleasure  of  all.  His 
manly  and  loyal  nature  was  at  all  times  equally  ready 
with  a knock-down  argument  and  a tear  of  sympathy. 
Chivalrous  and  tender-hearted  in  the  extreme  in  all 
the  real  relations  and  probing  circumstances  of  life, 
he  was  too  free  himself  from  small  or  morbid  suscep- 
tibilities to  be  very  sparing  of  them  in  others,  and  to 
those  who  met  and  talked  with  him  for  the  first  time 
might  easily  seem  too  trenchant  in  reply  and  too  pertina- 


158 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


cious  in  discussion.  But  you  soon  found  out  that  if 
he  was  the  most  unflinching  of  critics  and  disputants, 
he  was  also  the  most  unfailing  and  ever  serviceable 
of  friends.  Moreover,  to  what  pleased  him  in  your 
company  or  conversation  he  was  instantly  and  attrac- 
tively responsive.  He  would  eagerly  watch  for  and 
pounce  upon  your  remarks,  and  the  futile  or  half- 
sincere  among  them  he  would  toss  aside  with  a prompt 
and  wholesome  contempt,  his  eye  twinkling  the  while 
between  humour,  kindness,  and  annoyance ; while  on 
others  he  would  seize  with  gusto,  and  turn  them 
appreciatively  over  and  inside  out  until  he  had  made 
the  most  of  them.  In  my  own  intercourse  with  him, 
no  subject  was  more  frequently  discussed  between 
us  than  the  social  advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
scientific  and  mechanical  discovery.  I used  to  speak 
with  dislike  of  the  6 progress  ’ and  4 prosperity  ’ which 
cause  multitudes  to  teem  in  grimy  alleys  where  before 
a few  had  been  scattered  over  wholesome  fields,  and 
with  apprehension  of  the  possible  results  of  his  own 
last  invention  on  population  and  on  scenery.  He 
would  thereupon  assail  me  as  a puling  sentimentalist : 
I would  retort  on  him  as  a materialist  and  Philistine. 
In  the  course  of  discussion  he  would  be  forced  to  admit 
that  the  multiplication  and  dissemination  of  the  com- 
moda  vitce  in  the  modern  world  was  attended  by  the 
loss  of  much  in  life  and  nature  that  appealed  to  the 
imagination  and  the  sense  of  beauty  and  romance. 
But  he  would  always  fall  back  on  his  standing  argument 
that  life,  life  under  any  even  merely  endurable  condi- 
tions of  health,  freedom,  and  order,  was  well  worth 


FLEEMING  AND  ANNE  JENKIN 


159 


living ; and  that  the  mere  increase  of  human  beings 
capable  of  enjoying  the  rudimentary  pleasures  and 
fulfilling  the  rudimentary  duties  of  existence  was 
therefore  a real  and  solid,  even  if  not  unmixed,  good. 
Did  not  his  charity  and  buoyancy  of  temper  lead  him 
here  to  err  in  judging  others  by  himself  ? If,  indeed, 
any  large  proportion  of  those  multitudes  could  be  like 
him,  in  his  untiring  zest  for  life,  for  work,  for  truth, 
for  experience,  for  the  exercise  of  all  family  and 
human  duties  and  benevolences,  then  indeed  we  could 
with  him  agree  and  believe  that  all  was  for  the  best. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  his  memory,  as  it  abides  with  us 
after  there  has  passed  away  a whole  generation  since 
his  death,  is  more  vivid  and  more  inspiriting  than  are 
the  living  presences  of  the  thinner-blooded  and 
weaklier-souled  majority  of  men. 

His  wife,  as  I have  said,  survived  him  until  but 
the  other  day.  His  intense,  assiduous  devotion  to 
her  had  been  one  of  the  qualities  which  had  most 
endeared  him  to  his  friends.  She  came  of  a notable 
legal  family,  the  Austins  of  Creeting  Mill  in  Suffolk. 
The  eldest  of  the  three  distinguished  Austin  brothers, 
John,  gained  world- wide  fame  as  a philosophical 
jurist,  and  with  his  wife,  one  of  the  Norwich  Taylors, 
was  for  many  years  the  centre  of  the  most  brilliant 
legal  society  in  London : that  enchanting  character, 
Lucie,  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  was  their  only  child.  After 
his  early  youth  Suffolk  knew  John  Austin  no  more. 
Charles,  on  the  other  hand,  the  second  brother,  who 
had  been  a contemporary  at  Cambridge  of  Macaulay 
and  Cockburn,  and  one  of  the  most  dazzling  of  the 


160 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


brilliant  group  to  which  they  belonged,  after  rapidly 
making  an  unheard-of  fortune  at  the  Parliamentary 
bar,  retired  early  with  broken  health  to  his  native 
county  and  lived  there  a life  of  lettered  leisure,  under- 
taking no  duty  except  that  of  chairman  of  quarter 
sessions : my  father  knew  him  in  that  capacity  as  a 
matter  of  course,  but  not  intimately,  and  taught  me 
to  recognize  him,  but  no  more,  when  we  met  him 
driving  about  the  countryside.  The  third  brother, 
Alfred  Austin,  also  a lawyer,  was  a man  of  less  shining 
but  nevertheless  quite  effectual  gifts,  and  after  a 
succession  of  public  services  became  permanent  Secre- 
tary of  the  Office  of  Works.  His  wife  belonged  to  the 
highly  cultivated  Norwich  stock  of  the  Barrons. 
Mrs.  Fleeming  Jenkin  was  the  daughter  of  this  couple, 
and  in  mind  as  in  character  inherited  both  the  powers 
and  the  standards  of  the  distinguished  breeds  from 
which  she  sprang.  Her  own  special  gift  was  for  acting 
and  recitation.  It  was  only  privately  exercised,  but 
those  of  us  who  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  and  hearing 
her  will  never  forget  the  experience.  Her  features 
were  not  beautiful,  but  had  a signal  range  and  thrilling 
power  of  expression.  In  tragic  and  poetic  parts, 
especially  in  those  translated  or  adapted  from  the 
Greek,  she  showed  what,  as  I have  already  hinted, 
must  needs,  had  it  been  publicly  displayed,  have  been 
recognized  as  genius.  To  hear  her  declaim  dramatic 
verse  was  to  enjoy  that  art  in  its  very  perfection.  And 
her  gift  of  dramatic  gesture  was  not  less  striking. 
Recalling  her,  for  instance,  in  the  part  of  Clytemnestra, 
I can  vouch  for  having  seen  on  no  stage  anything  of 


FLEEMING  AND  ANNE  JENKIN 


161 


greater — on  the  English  stage  nothing  of  equal — power 
and  distinction.  Besides  these  and  other  figures  of 
Greek  tragedy,  Mrs.  Jenkin  showed  the  versatility  of 
her  gift  by  playing  with  power  and  success  such 
contrasted  Shakespeare  parts  as  Cleopatra,  Katherine 
the  shrew,  Viola,  Mrs.  Ford,  as  well  as,  in  other  fields 
of  drama,  Griselda,  Peg  Woffigton,  and  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop.  Needless  to  say  that  Jenkin,  who  delighted 
both  passionately  and  critically  in  everything  his  wife 
did  and  was,  took  especial  pride  and  joy  in  these 
performances,  and  in  getting  them  up  was  the  most 
energetic  and  capable  of  stage  managers,  whether  in 
the  private  theatre  which  he  and  his  friends  established 
for  a while  in  Edinburgh  (and  in  which  the  young 
Louis  Stevenson  occasionally  bore  a part),  or  on  the 
rarer  occasions  when  she  was  able  to  appear  in  London. 

Of  the  wise  and  warm  and  perfectly  unassuming 
private  virtues  of  this  admirable  woman,  her  tactful 
human  kindnesses  and  assiduities,  constant  and  unfail- 
ing until  the  end,  among  her  friends  and  descendants, 
the  present  is  no  place  to  speak.  The  affection  with 
which  Stevenson  never  ceased  to  regard  her,  the  value 
he  set  upon  her  practical  wisdom  and  advice  as  well 
as  the  zeal  with  which  he  bent  himself  to  carry  out 
the  heavy  task  his  friendship  had  undertaken  in  writing 
her  husband’s  life — all  these  things  are  made  manifest 
both  in  that  Life  itself  and  in  his  published  letters 
written  to  her  during  his  invalid  years  at  Bournemouth. 


CHAPTER  X 

BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Every  Londoner  knows  Box  Hill  near  Dorking,  with 
its  open  crest  and  wide  prospects  and  steep  chalky 
declivities  and  gullies  thicketed  with  juniper  and  box- 
wood. Through  a fine  act  of  private  generosity,  the 
crest,  with  its  slopes  and  approaches  from  the  high 
road  and  from  the  south-west,  has  now  become  the 
property  of  the  National  Trust  and  so  been  saved  to 
the  public  in  perpetuity,  while  some  of  the  adjacent 
and  no  less  attractive  open  country  has,  even  as  I 
write,  been  thrown  into  the  market  and  is  in  danger 
of  being  parcelled  out  for  building.  It  is  true  that 
of  the  ground  now  its  own  the  public  sometimes  makes 
an  irritating  enough  use,  especially  that  portion  of  the 
public  which  regales  itself  on  the  open  hill  instead  of 
at  the  inn  below,  and  litters  all  the  slopes  and  hollows 
with  the  wrappings  and  relics  of  its  provender. 
Fortunately,  no  amount  of  Cockney  frequentation 
can  cancel  or  much  disturb  the  inveterate  associa- 
tions of  the  scene  with  classical  works  and  classical 
figures  of  English  literature.  Moreover,  there  are 
plenty  of  hours  when  those  associations  can  still  be 
conjured  up  and  those  memories  enjoyed  in  quiet.  It 
is  six  years  and  more  since  I chanced  to  spend  the 

162 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


163 


evening  of  a chill  autumnal  day  wandering  alone 
about  those  familiar  and  haunted  slopes.  The  weather 
had  just  cleared  after  storm  : above  the  steep  shoulder 
of  the  down  a perfect  half-moon  hung  in  a sky  of  faint 
lilac  melting  into  pure  pearl-green : the  darkened 

valley  woods  were  of  a deep  misty  brown  touched 
here  and  there  almost  into  crimson  by  the  last  lingering 
flames  of  autumn : the  hills  closing  the  valley  south- 
westward  stood  purple  and  translucent  like  amethyst. 
The  rich,  solemnly  glowing  colours  of  the  scene,  with 
the  tingling  chill  of  the  season,  sent  a thrill  through 
my  blood  and  nerves  intensifying  the  memories  and 
associations  of  the  place  almost  into  actual  presences, 
hauntings  with  which  the  very  air  seemed  to  vibrate. 

The  earliest  of  such  memories  and  associations  per- 
sonal to  myself  had  been  from  days  of  my  own  later 
boyhood,  when  I used  often  to  visit  a family  of  girl- 
cousins  who  had  their  home  in  the  valley  a mile  or 
two  away  towards  Leatherhead,  and  for  one  of  whom 
I cherished  a mute  and  cubbish  adoration.  Other 
images,  from  fiction  and  from  real  life  alternately,  the 
one  not  less  vivid  than  the  other,  rose  and  thrust  them- 
selves crowdingly  upon  my  mind’s  eye.  Had  not 
Jane  Austen  made  a certain  imagined  picnic  on  the 
site  for  ever  memorable  by  the  misbehaviour  of  her 
dear,  her  fascinating  and  fastidious,  too-confident  and 
too-managing  Emma  Woodhouse,  whose  cleverness 
led  her  into  more  blunders  than  a duller  person  could 
have  committed,  and  who  on  the  day  of  that  picnic 
made  poor  Jane  Fairfax  so  dreadfully  unhappy  by  her 
flirtation  with  Frank  Churchill  ? Looking  across  the 


164 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


valley  to  the  great  park  of  Norbury  or  the  more  modest 
grounds  of  Camilla  Lacey,  did  not  the  figure  of  the  real 
and  charming  Fanny  Burney,  with  her  novels  and  her 
diaries  and  her  friends,  her  marriage  and  married  life 
with  the  most  irreproachably  correct  of  French  noble- 
men in  exile,  rise  up  to  occupy  and  animate  the  scene  ? 
For  a crisis  of  human  interest  in  a contrasted  kind, 
a crowning  moment  in  a red-blooded  historic  tale  of 
passion  and  heroism  and  beauty,  was  it  not  here  that 
Nelson  and  Emma  Hamilton  met  and  parted  for  the 
last  time  ? Was  it  not  here  again  that  Keats,  living 
for  some  late  autumn  weeks  at  the  Burford  Bridge  Inn, 
finished  the  last  five  hundred  lines  of  Endymion,  was 
drawn  by  the  spell  of  moonlight  (“  ‘ you  a’  seen  the 
moon  ? ’ ”)  up  the  hill  at  evening,  wrote  the  famous 
“ drear-nighted  December  ” song,  and  poured  out  in 
letters  to  his  friends  his  half-formed,  none  the  less 
illuminating  guesses  on  the  relations  of  imagination 
to  ultimate  truth  ? 

It  was  in  the  late  autumn  of  1867,  almost  exactly 
half  a century  after  Keats’s  stay  at  Burford  Bridge,  that 
George  Meredith  fixed  his  home  at  Flint  Cottage  a 
quarter  of  a mile  away.  The  association  with  Keats, 
it  may  be  noted,  was  one  of  the  attractions  the  place 
presented  to  him.  In  the  first  letter  I had  from  him 
inviting  me  there,  he  writes  of  it  as  a place  where 
Keats  “ did  abide  for  a while,  between  one  poem  and 
another,  conceiving,  as  I have  fancied,  a spot  ‘ where 
damp  moisture  breeds  The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange 
over-growth.’  ” This  is  a mistake.  Beside  the  banks 
of  that  sluggish,  eccentric  river  the  Mole,  with  its 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


165 


habit  of  diving  and  disappearing  altogether  at  certain 
places  in  the  summer  heats,  there  may  for  aught  I 
know  be  plashy  places  fitted  to  suggest  these  lines  to 
Keats.  But  as  a matter  of  fact  the  hymn  to  Pan, 
where  they  occur,  had  been  written  before  ever  he  came 
to  those  parts,  in  Thanet  or  perhaps  at  Canterbury. 
My  own  conviction  is  that  he  had  conceived  the  lines 
earlier  yet,  and  that  they  had  been  suggested  by  one 
of  the  Hampstead  ponds  which  he  had  to  pass  on  his 
walks  between  Leigh  Hunt’s  lodgings  in  the  Vale  of 
Health  and  his  brothers’  quarters  in  the  Poultry. 
Even  now,  when  the  ponds  are  much  better  kept  and 
the  ground  about  them  better  drained  than  is  recorded 
to  have  been  then  the  case,  this  one  is  partly  fringed, 
as  the  others  are  not,  with  a belt  of  rushes  among 
which  great  plants  of  hemlock  may  be  seen  bearing 
their  blooms  in  early  summer. 

But  to  return  to  Meredith — before  settling  at  Flint 
Cottage  he  knew  the  neighbourhood  well.  He  had 
lived  for  some  years  of  his  early  youth  near  Weybridge, 
later  for  several  more  years  near  Esher,  and  mighty 
walker  as  he  was,  had  in  tramps  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night — by  predilection  round  about  the  hour  of 
dawn — come  to  know  all  the  stretches  of  chalk  down 
or  heather,  all  the  valleys  and  water-meadows  and 
steep  woodlands,  the  roads  and  farm  tracks  and  foot- 
ways, of  mid-Surrey,  and  the  men  and  creatures  fre- 
quenting them,  with  a familiarity  such  as  scarcely 
any  other  man  has  possessed,  a poet’s  intimacy  at  once 
ardently  imaginative  and  minutely  observant.  Within 
a month  or  two  after  his  settling  into  Flint  Cottage  he 


166 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


writes  to  a friend  : “ Who  could  help  flourishing  here  ? 
I am  every  morning  on  the  top  of  Box  Hill — as  its 
flower,  its  bird,  its  prophet.  I drop  down  the  moon 
on  one  side,  I draw  up  the  sun  on  t’other.  I breathe 
fine  air.  I shout  ha  ha  to  the  gates  of  the  world. 
Then  I descend,  and  know  myself  a donkey  for  doing 
it.”  It  was  here,  either  in  the  cottage  itself  or  in  the 
two-roomed  chalet  which  he  afterwards  built  in  an 
upper  corner  of  his  garden,  and  from  the  windows  of 
which,  as  he  has  told  us,  he  loved  to  welcome  the 
thrushes  when  they  came  in  February  to  flute  their 
prelude  to  the  nightingales  of  April — it  was  here  that 
he  wrote  the  whole  succession  of  his  middle  and  later 
novels : Harry  Richmond  and  Beauchamp's  Career 

and  The  Egoist  and  Diana  of  the  Crossways  and 
One  of  our  Conquerors  and  Lord  Ormont  and  The 
Amazing  Marriage ; here  also  all  his  middle  and 
later  poetry : Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth , 
Ballads  and  Poems  of  Tragic  Life , A Reading  of 
Earth , A Reading  of  Life,  and  the  rest.  More  in- 
cessant and  strenuous  labour  of  brain  and  heart 
together  than  those  titles  signify  is  hardly  recorded 
of  any  man.  During  the  first  fifteen  or  more  of  this 
period  of  forty  years  neither  his  novels  nor  his  poetry 
had  any  success  with  the  public.  Outside  a narrow 
circle  of  friends  and  admirers  he  had  few  readers  and 
none  but  harsh  critics,  and  frugal  as  he  was,  had  to 
live  not  by  the  exercise  of  his  genius  but  by  hack-work 
as  a journalist  and  publisher’s  reader.  But  the 
friends  were  staunch  and  the  admirers  keen  : and  the 
cottage  at  Box  Hill  was  well  frequented  by  an  intim- 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


167 


ate  circle  of  those  who  appreciated  both  the  man  and 
his  work.  Some  men  are  repelled,  others  attracted, 
by  a personality  more  powerful  and  shining  than  their 
own.  To  those  whom  such  a personality  attracts, 
Meredith’s  physical  activity,  strength,  and  beauty,  the 
exuberance  and  authority  of  his  talk,  with  its  singular 
blend  of  elaborate  high  courtesy  and  unsparing  raillery, 
its  brusque  transitions  from  grave  wisdom  to  riotous 
hyperbolical  laughter,  his  eager  interest  in  all  phases 
of  life,  literature  and  politics,  his  staunchness,  and  at 
the  same  time  sensitiveness,  in  friendship,  his  genial 
yet  fastidious  conviviality,  made  him  the  most  im- 
pressive and  stimulating  of  companions. 

It  was  not  until  1878  that  I first  met  him,  and  then 
only  to  shake  hands  on  the  introduction  of  Louis 
Stevenson.  Stevenson  was  staying  at  the  Burford 
Bridge  Inn  with  his  parents,  busy  upon  the  early  part 
of  his  New  Arabian  Nights  (the  Suicide  Club  chapters), 
and  finding  himself  thus  almost  at  Meredith’s  door,  had 
sought  leave,  sensitively  and  shyly,  not  without  fear 
of  a rebuff,  to  pay  him  the  homage  of  a beginner  to  a 
master.  The  two  had  common  friends  in  a young 
couple  then  living  at  Pixholme  close  by,  the  Jim 
Gordons,*  and  in  their  garden  Meredith  and  Stevenson 
were  invited  to  meet.  Stevenson,  who  could  be  as 
engaging  in  deference  as  he  was  brilliant  and  stimu- 
lating in  challenge,  soon  completely  won  the  affection 
of  his  senior,  and  their  meetings  were  renewed  almost 

* Mrs.  Gordon,  nee  Alice  Brandreth,  is  now  the  wife  of  Sir  John 
George  Butcher,  Bart.,  M.P.  for  the  City  of  York.  See  her  volume, 
Memories  of  George  Meredith , O.M.  : Constable  & Co.,  1919. 


168 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


daily  for  several  weeks.  One  afternoon  during  those 
weeks,  having  gone  down  to  Box  Hill  to  see  Stevenson 
and  the  Gordons,  I remember  being  introduced  to 
Meredith  across  a stile  or  field  gate  to  which  he  had 
come  up  in  company  with  the  two  Stevensons,  Louis 
and  Bob,  at  the  end  of  a twelve-mile  walk  ; a thing  of 
which  Louis  was  well  capable  in  those  days,  before  his 
journey  to  California,  but  never  afterwards.  Steven- 
son was  there  again  with  his  wife  in  1881  and  1882,  and 
for  the  last  time  in  August  1886,  a year  before  he  left 
England  never  to  return.  When  Meredith  first  planned 
his  novel.  The  Amazing  Marriage , he  meant  to  make 
one  of  his  characters,  Gower  Woodseer,  in  some  measure 
a portrait  of  R.  L.  S.,  but  changed  his  purpose  in  the 
execution,  and  scarce  a trace  of  likeness  remains. 

There  was  something  about  Burford  Bridge  and  its 
neighbourhood,  apart  from  the  attraction  of  Meredith’s 
company,  which  drew  Stevenson  for  its  own  sake  and 
set  his  imagination  working.  His  “ Suicide  Club  ” 
stories,  though  written  there,  had  of  course  nothing 
to  do  with  the  sentiment  of  the  scene  : they  had  been 
conceived  in  nocturnal  prowls  about  London.  But 
some  years  later  Stevenson  coupled  the  Burford  Bridge 
Inn  with  the  Hawes  Inn  at  Queen’s  Ferry  on  the  Forth 
as  a place  made  for  adventure  and  thrilling  with 
suggestions  of  potential  romance.  His  words  are 
well  known : — “ I have  lived  both  at  the  Hawes  and 
Burford  in  a perpetual  flutter,  on  the  heels,  as  it  seemed, 
of  some  adventure  that  should  justify  the  place ; but 
though  the  feeling  had  me  to  bed  at  night  and  called 
me  again  at  morning  in  one  unbroken  round  of  pleasure 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


169 


and  suspense,  nothing  befell  me  in  either  worth  remark. 
The  man  or  the  hour  had  not  yet  come ; but  some 
day,  I think,  a boat  shall  put  off  from  the  Queen’s  Ferry, 
fraught  with  a dear  cargo,  and  some  frosty  night 
a horseman,  on  a tragic  errand,  rattle  with  his  whip 
upon  the  green  shutters  of  the  inn  at  Burford.”  The 
hope  was  realized  as  to  Queen’s.  Ferry,  but  never  as 
to  Burford  Bridge.  I imagine  the  attempt  would 
have  been  made  in  connection  with  his  projected  tale, 
Jerry  Abershaw , at  one  time  eagerly  planned  but 
never  brought  even  so  far  into  being  as  that  other 
highway  story,  The  Great  North  Road , which  remains 
so  tantalizing  a fragment  in  his  work.  But  to  return 
to  his  special  relations  with  Meredith — of  all  the  elder 
master’s  letters,  none  perhaps  is  more  characteristic 
than  that  which  he  wrote  to  R.  L.  S.  on  the  publication 
of  his  first  book,  The  Inland  Voyage . I give  only  the 
critical  paragraphs  of  the  letter,  which  has  been 
printed  in  full  in  Mr.  W.  Meredith’s  two-volume 
edition  of  his  father’s  correspondence. 

e I have  been  fully  pleased.  The  writing  is  of  the  rare  kind 
which  is  naturally  simple  yet  picked  and  choice.  It  is  literature. 
The  eye  on  land  and  people  embraces  both,  and  does  not  take 
them  up  in  bits.  I have  returned  to  the  reading  and  shall  again. 
The  reflections  wisely  tickle,  they  are  in  the  right  good  tone  of 
philosophy  interwrought  with  humour. 

4 My  protest  is  against  the  Preface  and  the  final  page.  The 
Preface  is  keenly  in  Osric’s  vein — c everything  you  will,  dear  worthy 
public,  but  we  are  exceedingly  modest  and  doubt  an  you  will  read 
us,  though  exquisitely  silken-calved  we  are,  and  could  say  a word 
of  ourselves,  yet  on  seeing  our  book,  were  we  amazed  at  our  little- 
ness indeed  and  truly,  my  lord  Public  ! ’ As  for  the  closing  page 


170 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


it  is  rank  recreancy.  4 Yes,  Mr.  Barlow/  said  Tommy,  4 I have 
travelled  abroad,  under  various  mishaps,  to  learn  in  the  end  that 
the  rarest  adventures  are  those  one  does  not  go  forth  to  seek.’ 
4 My  very  words  to  him,’  said  Mr.  Barlow  to  himself,  at  the  same 
time  presenting  Tommy  with  a guinea  piece. — This  last  page  is 
quite  out  of  tone  with  the  spirit  of  the  book. 

4 1 remember  4 On  the  Oise,’  you  speak  of  the  river  hurrying 
on,  4 never  pausing  to  take  breath.’  This,  and  a touch  of  excess 
in  dealing  with  the  reeds,  whom  you  deprive  of  their  beauty  by 
over  informing  them  with  your  sensations,  I feel  painfully  to  be 
levelled  at  the  Saxon  head.  It  is  in  the  style  of  Dickens.  ’ 

Coming  from  a ripe  to  a budding  genius,  from  a man 
of  fifty  to  one  of  twenty-eight,  could  praise  and  admoni- 
tion, encouragement  and  a touch  of  satire,  be  blended 
more  wisely  and  adroitly  ? Or  could  any  words  bear 
more  sharply  the  characteristic  Meredithian  mint- 
mark  ? To  us  who  knew  him  the  second  paragraph 
in  particular  carries  a quintessential  flavour  of  the 
man.  Those  bits  of  parody  in  the  styles  of  Osric  and 
of  Sand  ford  and  Merton — how  many  afternoons  of 
rich  hour-long  talk  do  they  recall,  when  the  master, 
walking  in  the  garden  or  on  the  hill-side  with  friends, 
would  stop  and  lean  back  against  his  stick  and  fall 
to  teasing  one  or  the  other  of  us  by  imputing  to  him 
all  manner  of  absurd  adventures  and  parts  in  imagin- 
ary conversations.  He  would  begin  quietly  and 
plausibly,  until  by  and  by  his  invention,  taking  wing, 
would  soar  as  it  were  in  ascending  spirals  into  a bur- 
lesque empyrean  where  it  would  sustain  itself  unflag- 
gingly,  not  without  a penetrating  shaft  aimed  from 
time  to  time  at  the  true  character  and  weaknesses  of 
the  person  parodied.  The  most  characteristic  strain 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


171 


in  his  ordinary  manner  was  this  blend  of  the  most 
scrupulous  courtesy  with  the  frankest  raillery,  both 
somewhat  elaborate  in  their  kind.  He  would  take 
and  keep  the  same  tone  with  servants,  whom  it  mysti- 
fied beyond  measure  but  none  the  less  delighted,  and 
who  adored  him.  (I  am  thinking  naturally  and  in 
especial  of  the  invaluable  man-of-all-work,  Cole.)  He 
would  even  take  it  with  his  pet  dogs.  I have  noticed 
that  the  dogs  of  men  of  genius  love  them  more  passion- 
ately and  devotedly  than  they  love  ordinary  masters, 
I suppose  feeling  in  them  some  extra  glow  and  intensity 
of  the  emotional  faculties  calling  for  a response  in 
kind.  To  the  succession  of  black  and  tan  or  pure  tan 
dachshunds  given  to  Meredith  by  various  friends, 
Koby  and  Bruny  and  Pete  (for  6 Kobold,’  c Bruno,’ 
6 Peto  ’),  and  Islet,  on  whom  he  wrote  his  well-known 
elegy — to  these  it  was  a delight  to  hear  him  talking 
eagerly  by  the  half  hour  together  in  terms  now  of  caress- 
ing endearment,  now  of  irony,  or  sometimes,  when 
the  poaching  instinct  had  proved  too  strong  in  any  of 
them,  of  pained  parental  reproof. 

Divers  common  friends  have  assured  me,  and  I can 
easily  believe,  that  the  master  was  never  more  himself 
than  when  he  occasionally  received  on  their  Sunday 
afternoon  peregrinations  the  company  of  walkers 
whom  Leslie  Stephen  had  organized  under  the  name  of 
the  Sunday  Tramps.  None  but  the  youngest  of  my 
readers  will  need  telling  how  Stephen  excelled  no  less 
as  an  athletic  walker  and  mountaineer  than  as  a 
masterly  critic,  editor,  and  biographer : “ long  Leslie 
Stephen,”  as  we  used  commonly  to  call  him,  for  long 


172 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


he  was  alike  of  back,  leg,  and  stride,  of  nose  and  of 
beard  (the  fine  forked  and  flowing  auburn  beard 
depicted  in  Watts’s  well-known  portrait).  He  had  no 
small  talk,  and  to  strangers  or  ordinary  acquaintances 
was  apt  to  seem  a character  even  sardonically  dry  and 
shy.  But  no  man  had  a greater  power  of  winning 
the  love  of  those  to  whom  he  felt  himself  drawn.  He 
had  for  wife  first  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  women, 
and  after  her  death  another  who  was  also  one  of  the 
most  beautiful,  and  for  devoted  men-friends  a pick  of 
the  choicest  spirits  of  his  time,  both  English  and 
American.  Of  these  friends  Meredith  was  one  of  the 
closest,  and  in  the  character  of  Vernon  Whitford  in 
The  Egoist  has  turned  the  intimacy  to  living  literary 
account.  He  was  never  one  of  Stephen’s  troop  of 
Tramps  himself,  but  his  cottage  was  pretty  often  made 
a starting-point  or  resting-point  for  their  outings.* 
Not  long  after  the  society  was  founded,  which  was  in 
1879,  his  own  walking  powers  began  little  by  little  to 
fail.  For  the  first  few  years  he  would  go  a good  part 
of  the  day’s  walk  with  them,  then  gradually  not  for 
more  than  a mile  or  two  ; but  as  long  as  their  little 
society  lasted  he  used  to  receive  them  into  his  cottage 
and  hold  forth  among  them,  I am  told,  at  his  best. 

As  regards  my  own  relations  with  Meredith,  I have 
told  how  I shook  hands  with  him  across  a stile  in  1878. 
But  my  intimacy  did  not  begin  till  after  the  death  of 
his  second  wife  in  1885  and  my  own  removal  from  my 
previous  headquarters  at  Cambridge  to  take  up  work 

* For  a full  account  of  the  Tramps,  see  F.  W.  Maitland,  The 
Life  and  Letters  of  Leslie  Stephen,  Duckworth,  1907. 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


173 


at  the  British  Museum.  The  days  of  his  neglect  were 
then  passing  away.  After  the  publication  of  The 
Egoist  and  Diana  of  the  Crossways  critics  like  Stevenson 
and  Henley,  with  their  zeal  and  energy  and  power 
of  making  themselves  heard,  had  forced  Meredith 
afresh  upon  the  attention  both  of  his  own  contem- 
poraries and  theirs.  A still  younger  generation  needed 
no  convincing ; American  appreciation  quickly  fol- 
lowed ; and  so  by  degrees  the  enthusiasm  of  the  few 
succeeded  in  making  admiration  for  him  a fashion 
with  the  many.  At  the  same  time  his  bodily,  though 
not  his  intellectual,  vigour  was  beginning  by  gradual 
degrees  to  flag.  The  reddish  brown  had  quite  faded 
from  his  hair  and  given  place  to  the  shade  between 
grizzled  and  silvery  that  went  so  well  with  his  habitual, 
unvarying  suit  of  warm  light-grey  set  off  by  a bright 
scarlet  tie.  But  both  of  hair  and  beard  the  crop  was 
as  rich  and  wavy  as  ever ; and  the  features  retained 
unimpaired  alike  their  fine  cutting  and  their  firm 
resolute  air.  His  voice  had  not  at  all  lost — indeed  it 
never  lost — its  strong  virile  timbre , nor  his  utterance 
its  authoritative  rotundity  and  fulness  ; for  his  speech 
was  ever  clear-cut  and  complete,  and  the  fashion, 
growing,  I fear,  in  our  modern  English  conversation 
of  lazily  mumbling  and  muttering  at  one  another  from 
behind  our  teeth  slurred,  half-articulate  sounds  instead 
of  formed  words,  had  no  countenance  from  him.  The 
range  of  his  walks  was  beginning  to  be  much  narrowed, 
but  he  could  still  breast  gallantly  the  hill  that  rises 
from  just  outside  his  garden  gate,  and  it  was  only  by 
slow  degrees  that  the  symptoms  developed  themselves 


174 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  that  malady  which  was  to  cripple  his  lower  limbs 
entirely  some  years  before  the  end. 

From  the  twenty  years  of  his  later  life  during  which 
Meredith  used  to  make  me  welcome  whenever  I liked 
to  come,  what  have  I chiefly  to  recall  ? Well,  I never 
attempted,  even  mentally,  to  Boswellize  him.  Remem- 
ber, moreover,  that  to  make  the  one  and  only  Boswell 
it  took  the  one  and  only  Johnson : the  talker  of  all 
talkers  most  accustomed  to  deliver  himself  in  brief, 
conclusive,  as  it  were  portable  sentences,  each  remem- 
berably  laying  down — say  rather  hammering  down— 
the  law  on  this  or  that  question  of  life  or  conduct  or 
opinion.  Meredith  was  fond,  as  all  his  readers  know,  of 
composing  condensed  oracular  aphorisms  such  as  those 
of  the  Pilgrim’s  Scrip  in  Richard  Feverel : but  these 
were  literary  products,  the  fruits  of  hard  meditation 
during  solitary  walks  or  in  his  study.  Several  writers 
of  recollections  have  set  down  memories  of  his  talk 
when  he  delivered  himself  more  or  less  in  the  same 
vein  orally.  But  to  my  mind  he  was  never  in  that  vein 
his  best  self.  His  best  and  most  characteristic  talk 
was  above  all  things  spontaneous,  abundant,  inventive, 
leaping  and  flinging  itself  from  idea  to  idea  and  from 
clause  to  clause.  The  more  overpowering  of  his 
monologues  sprang  sometimes  from  the  mere  overflow 
of  animal  and  intellectual  spirits.  Sometimes,  before 
a mixed  company  which  included  strangers,  I fear 
it  must  be  owned  that  they  gave  an  impression  of  pro- 
ceeding from  a desire  to  show  off  and  play  fireworks. 
I do  not  think  that  impression  was  quite  just.  The 
truth  is  that  Meredith  cherished  an  ideal  of  what  the 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


175 


brilliance  of  everyday  social  intercourse  ought  to  be 
which  corresponded  not  at  all  to  the  capacities  of 
ordinary  persons  but  to  the  quite  abnormal  and  super- 
athletic  activities  of  his  own  brain.  He  never  fully  real- 
ized the  difference  between  his  own  intellect  and  those 
of  average  people.  In  his  novels  he  will  often  make 
characters  described  as  ordinary  talk  like  himself,  and 
they,  being  his  creations,  can  only  do  as  he  bids  them. 
But  when  in  real  life  he  would  sometimes  try  to  lift 
the  talk  of  a commonplace  company  to  his  own  plane, 
the  result  was  apt  to  be  that  he  would  be  left  discours- 
ing alone  to  auditors  silent  and  gaping,  disconcerted 
or  perhaps  even  annoyed.  Among  those  who  knew 
him  well  and  could  play  up  to  him  a similar  strain  of 
talk  went  better.  I have  told  how  one  of  his  favourite 
diversions,  when  there  were  three  or  four  friends,  men 
or  women,  or  both,  gathered  about  him,  was  to  begin 
bantering  one  of  them  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
rest.  Vanity  might  suffer  under  the  play : indeed 
vanity  was  never  much  at  ease  in  Meredith’s  company. 
To  give  any  sign  of  pique  or  resentment  was  fatal. 
Little  mercy  would  then  be  shown  you  : the  only 
safe  course  was  to  go  all  the  way  with  him,  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  his  inventions  and  if  possible  burlesque 
his  burlesque,  when  he  would  be  delighted  with  you  and 
himself,  and  throw  back  his  beautiful  head,  and  crow 
with  his  great  manly  laugh,  and  prolong  the  talk  in 
high  good  humour,  descending  by  easy  degrees  into 
the  vein  of  genial  and  equal  companionship. 

He  loved  argument,  and  would  sometimes  challenge 
and  dispute  for  the  mere  sake  of  disputation  and 


176 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


mental  exercise.  I remember  one  rather  specially 
striking  case  in  point  from  my  own  intercourse  with 
him.  I had  broken  out  vehemently  on  the  impossi- 
bility of  enjoying  wild  scenery  in  the  company  of  a 
miscellaneous  crowd  of  tourists.  He  at  once  fell  upon 
me  fiercely  for  the  sin  of  selfish  exclusiveness  and 
fancied  superiority  to  fellow-beings  as  good  as  myself. 
I stood  my  ground  and  pushed  him  with  questions : 
whether  in  point  of  fact  the  spiritual  and  imaginative 
effect  of  a certain  class  of  scenes  did  not  depend  essen- 
tially on  their  being  visited  in  solitude  or  in  the  chosen 
company  of  a very  few:  whether,  for  instance,  the 

shores  of  a remote  Highland  loch  could  speak  to  one, 
when  a rackety  packetful  of  MacBrayne’s  trippers 
had  just  been  dumped  upon  them  from  an  excursion 
steamer,  as  they  spoke  to  one  when  one  was  alone : 
whether,  if  he  himself  went  to  any  old  haunt  of  his 
in  Switzerland  or  Tyrol  and  found  a huge  new  block 
of  hotel  building  disfiguring  the  scene  at  its  most 
sensitive  point,  and  pouring  forth  its  crowd  of  cosmo- 
politan chatterers  and  loungers,  he  would  not  turn 
away  in  disappointment : whether,  in  fine,  it  was  not 
one  of  the  standing  contrarieties  of  things,  proving 
no  good  to  be  without  its  evil,  that  the  modern  poetic 
and  romantic  love  of — or  let  us  say  rather  fashion  for 
— wild  scenes  and  solitudes  should  have  had,  oftener 
than  not,  now  that  it  has  been  turned  to  profitable 
account  by  hotel  speculators  and  advertisers,  the  prac- 
tical effect  of  robbing  the  scenes  of  their  wildness  and 
the  solitudes  of  their  power  upon  the  soul.  In  such 
discussions  he  would  not  usually  be  overbearing  or 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


177 


unreasonable,  or  use  his  resources  merely  to  crush  or 
bemock  one,  and  I remember  that  on  this  occasion  I 
got  him  to  something  almost  like  a half-way  agreement. 
It  has  been  borne  in  upon  me  since  that  he  must 
have  been  from  the  beginning  arguing  chiefly  for 
argument’s  sake,  for  I find  among  his  published  letters 
one  to  the  Press  against  a proposed  extension  railway 
to  Ambleside  in  the  Lake  Country ; and  in  this  he 
takes,  not  less  effectively  than  decisively,  exactly  the 
same  line  as  I had  found  myself  taking  against  him 
in  talk  as  above  related : — 

Where  there  is  dissension  between  rich  and  poor,  I do  not 
commonly  side  with  the  former.  I am  against  the  project  because 
it  does  not  promise  to  be  of  good  use  to  the  people.  . . . We  have 
here  one  of  the  few  instances  of  Sentimentalists  pleading  for  the 
general  interests,  Conservatives  upholding  the  cause  of  Democrats. 
I suppose  that  an  Ambleside  railway  would  offer  a paying  invest- 
ment to  the  Shareholder  ; it  would  fatten  some  publican  ; and 
it  would  spare  the  excursionist  that  exercise  of  his  legs  and  chest 
which  it  is  beneficial  for  him  to  take.  ...  It  cannot  be  thought 
that  Englishmen  will  allow  their  one  recreative  holiday  ground  of 
high  hill  and  deep  dale  (I  would  add  “ consecrated  by  one  of  our 
noblest  poets/’  but  that  I am  on  my  guard  against  treating  the 
subject  emotionally)  to  be  a place  of  no  retreat.  They  must  have 
ceased  to  discern  the  quality  of  true  utility  if  they  permit  it. 
Spiritual  beauty  serves  us  to  the  full  as  much  as  material  force, 
and  it  must  have  its  homes  of  seclusion  to  live.  We  must  guard 
it  to  keep  it. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  from  what  I have  said  that 
either  badinage  and  satire,  or  disputation  for  disputa- 
tion’s sake,  were  at  all  times  elements  in  Meredith’s 
conversation.  No  reader  of  his  novels  but  must  have 


178 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


been  impressed  by  the  contrast  between  the  incessant 
elaborate  fireworks  of  wit  (wit  surely  degenerating 
too  often  into  tiresome  intellectual  foppery  and  show- 
off  ?)  in  which  his  characters  are  made  to  indulge  in 
their  lighter  moments  and  the  straightforward  intensity 
of  feeling  and  utterance — utterance  lucid  however 
packed  and  pregnant — commonly  assigned  to  them  in 
crucial  moments  of  passion.  A somewhat  similar 
contrast  marked,  in  my  experience,  their  author’s 
show  conversation  in  mixed  company  and  his  intimate 
talk  in  the  privacy  of  friendship.  No  man  could  be 
more  gravely  or  more  sagaciously  sympathetic  when 
the  appeal  for  sympathy  was  made,  or  could  put  more 
of  bracing  life-wisdom  into  advice  on  matters  of  con- 
duct when  his  advice  was  sought.  To  women  (at 
least  to  the  right  kind  of  women,  for  with  sentimental- 
ists or  self-flatterers  of  either  sex  he  had  small  patience) 
he  could  be  the  most  chivalrous-hearted  and  tenderly 
understanding  and  honourably  helpful  of  men,  as 
beseemed  the  creator  of  Lucy  Feverel  and  Rose 
Jocelyn  and  Renee  and  Clara  Middleton,  of  Rhoda 
and  Dahlia  and  Diana  and  the  rest : his  temper  and 
discourse  in  these  respects  being  in  life  and  in  literature 
entirely  and  admirably  the  same.  In  tete-a-tete  inter- 
course he  rarely,  in  my  experience,  mounted  the  high 
intellectual  or  fantastic  stilts,  but  would  enter  simply, 
with  the  power  and  incisiveness  of  a master  but  on 
perfectly  free  and  equal  terms,  on  almost  any  subject 
of  human  or  historical  or  literary  discussion. 

A very  frequent  subject  of  talk  between  us  was  on 
the  duty  and  necessity  for  England  of  the  obligation 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


179 


to  national  service.  He  conceived  military  training 
to  be  a thing  desirable  in  every  state,  desirable  for 
the  sake  of  the  manhood,  the  self-respect,  the  physical 
and  moral  health  of  its  citizens,  and  desirable  for  our- 
selves above  all  peoples.  He  held  that  if  our  popula- 
tion would  not  shake  off  its  carelessness  and  sloth, 
born  of  plethora,  and  submit  to  that  discipline,  as 
well  as  to  other  wholesome  disciplines  of  mind  and 
body,  our  day  was  done.  He  believed  that  a more 
sternly  trained  race  like  the  Germans  would  surely 
win  against  us  and  deserve  to  win.  These  convictions 
at  the  same  time  did  not  shake  his  attachment  to  the 
Liberal  party  in  the  state,  which  almost  to  a man  was 
vehemently  opposed  to  them.  When  I urged  that  he 
should  strive  to  convert  his  political  friends  and  should 
in  writing  declare  his  mind  on  the  question  in  terms 
more  calculated  to  strike  home  than  the  cryptic  utter- 
ances which  he  puts  into  the  mouths  of  a Colney 
Durance  or  a Simeon  Fenellan,  he  was  apt  to  answer 
as  though  the  matter  were  one  which  concerned  him 
not  as  one  of  ourselves,  but  only  as  a critic  and  onlooker. 

In  discussions  on  England  and  her  character  and 
destinies  he  would  always  separate  himself  from  his 
countrymen  and  say  64  You  English.”  This  attitude 
seemed  to  me  to  be  due  partly  to  a cherished  conscious- 
ness of,  or  at  all  events  belief  in,  his  own  purely  Celtic 
blood  (his  father  having  been  Welsh  and  his  mother 
Irish),  partly  to  the  sense  of  alienation  from  the  sym- 
pathies of  his  countrymen  which  had  been  forced  on 
his  proud  and  sensitive  nature  by  their  long  neglect 
of  his  work.  Dearly  as  he  loved,  and  deeply  beyond  all 


180 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


men  as  he  knew,  the  English  soil,  he  would  sometimes 
inveigh  against  defects  of  the  English  mind  and  char- 
acter in  the  tone  not  only  of  a detached  stranger  but 
almost  of  an  enemy.  This  from  such  a man,  by  that 
time  at  any  rate  recognized  as  one  of  the  glories  of  our 
age  and  country,  was  a thing  that  I used  sometimes  to 
find  hard  to  bear.  The  true  key  to  his  mind  in  the 
matter  is  perhaps  to  be  found  in  his  words  written  in 
1870 : “ I am  neither  German  nor  French,  nor, 
unless  the  nation  is  attacked,  English.  I am  European 
and  Cosmopolitan — for  humanity  ! The  nation  which 
shows  most  worth  is  the  nation  I love  and  reverence.” 
Nearly  thirty  years  later,  in  one  of  his  very  last  letters, 
he  writes  : “ As  to  our  country,  if  the  people  were 
awake,  they  would  submit  to  be  drilled.  . . . The 
fear  of  imposing  drill  for  at  least  a year  seems  to  me  a 
forecast  of  the  national  tragedy.”  Conceive  what 
would  have  been  his  scorn  for  those  who  shrieked 
against  the  duty  of  imposing  national  service  even 
after  the  outbreak  of  the  world  war,  during  those 
months  of  deadly  peril  to  all  that  England  stands  for 
and  holds  dear.  But  what  I like  better  to  conceive  is 
the  conversion  he  must  needs  have  undergone  had  he 
lived  to  see  his  own  critical  and  contemptuous  mis- 
givings on  England’s  account  belied  when  the  day  of 
trial  came — to  see  her  thrust  her  own  currish  coun- 
sellors aside  and  shoulder  valiantly  and  in  the  end 
victoriously  the  tremendous  duties  of  the  time. 

Most  of  Meredith’s  friends  and  admirers  cared  much 
more,  at  least  during  his  life-time,  for  his  novels  than 
for  his  poems.  I think  one  of  the  things  which  made 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


181 


him  tolerate  my  company  was  the  interest,  puzzled 
and  fretted  interest  though  it  often  was,  which  I took 
in  his  poetry.  Very  much  of  this  had  always  repelled 
me  by  its  obscurity : but  among  the  rest,  the  things 
relatively  clear,  there  were  some  that  seemed  to  me 
in  various  kinds  unsurpassed,  as  in  the  simple  lyric 
kind  The  Sweet  o’  the  Year  and  Autumn  Even  Song ; 
in  more  strenuous  and  ambitious  kinds  Melampus ; 
Earth  and  a Wedded  Woman  ; Love  in  the  Valley,  surely 
as  rich  and  original  a love-lyric,  or  lyric  and  idyll  in 
one,  as  was  ever  written.  Equally  pre-eminent  among 
lyrics  political  seemed  to  me  the  ode  On  France  written 
after  her  overthrow  in  1870  and  foretelling  for  her 
much  such  a resurrection  as  we  afterwards  witnessed. 
I was  proportionately  disappointed  at  the  difficulty 
with  which  I found  myself  trying  to  follow  the  odes 
On  Napoleon  and  On  French  History  when  he  read 
them  to  me,  then  fresh  written,  in  1898.  His  tones  in 
reading  were  resonant  and  masterful  as  I have  said, 
but  withal  level  and  not  much  modulated  or  varied  so 
as  to  help  the  sense ; and  in  poems  so  close-packed 
and  complicated  in  construction,  so  dense  with  thought 
and  imagery  as  these,  the  full  meaning  of  what  he  read 
was  naturally  hard  to  seize.  As  a rule  he  courted  no 
criticism  and  allowed  for  no  difficulty ; but  one  day 
I remember  that  he  was  more  indulgent  than  usual. 
He  paused  to  say  how  he  knew  some  people  found  his 
poetry  obscure,  and  to  ask  whether  I did,  and  where, 
and  why  ? I tried  to  point  out  some  puzzles  in  his 
printed  poems  which  I had  quite  failed  to  solve,  even 
with  the  page  before  me  and  full  leisure  to  study  it. 


182 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


He  was  patient,  but  simply  could  not  see  that  they 
were  puzzles  at  all,  and  closed  the  talk  characteristic- 
ally with  a jolly  laugh  over  the  sluggishness  of  my 
Saxon  wits.  In  the  course  of  it,  defining  his  own  aims 
and  ideals  in  verse,  he  repeated  several  times  with 
insistence,  “ Concentration  and  suggestion,  Colvin, 
concentration  and  suggestion,  those  are  the  things  I 
care  for  and  am  always  trying  for  in  poetry.”  It 
was  a misfortune,  I think,  for  his  art,  and  probably 
for  his  hold  of  posterity,  that  theory  should  thus  have 
come  to  reinforce  and  exaggerate  habits  of  thought 
and  style  to  which  he  was  only  too  prone  by  instinct.* 

But  my  frank  admission  of  not  being  always  able  to 
follow  him  did  not  disgust  him  with  me  as  a hearer. 

* I borrowed  this  phrase  of  the  master’s  for  the  title  of  a lecture, 
since  printed  as  a pamphlet  of  the  English  Association  (No.  32, 
1915),  in  which  I tried  to  define  and  illustrate  various  special  modes 
of  concentration  and  suggestion  characteristic  of  some  of  our  chief 
poets.  And  I indicated  the  higher  rank  to  be  assigned,  as  I think, 
to  that  mode  in  which  not  intellect  but  imagination  plays  the  chief 
part ; not  intellect,  ever  challenging  the  mind  to  a wrestle  among 
the  problems  and  complexities  of  things,  but  imagination,  which 
strikes  into  the  heart  of  things  an  effortless  and  instantaneous 
light.  Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  master  in  both  modes.  In  the 
work  of  poets  like  Donne,  Browning,  Meredith,  the  intellectual 
mode  of  concentration  and  suggestion  predominates  : in  that  of 
Meredith  to  a degree  which  repels  many  readers  and  annoys  them. 
But  it  is  clear  that  what  repels  and  annoys  one  class  of  mind  attracts 
and  stimulates  another  ; witness  Mr.  G.  M.  Trevelyan’s  interesting 
volume,  The  Poetry  and  Philosophy  of  George  Meredith , in  which 
he  seems  to  show  that  what  has  chiefly  drawn  him  to  the  author’s 
work  is  its  continual  athletic  play  of  wit  and  challenge  to  mental 
effort  in  the  reader. 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


183 


Just  before  Christmas,  1889,  I had  the  following  letter 
from  him : — 

My  dear  Colvin, — 

I don’t  like  the  account  you  give  of  yourself,  and  shall  be  glad 
to  hear  when  you  can  take  a day  and  night  here  with  me.  I will 
read  you  some  hexameters — a version  of  the  passages  of  the  Iliad 
best  known — -sounding  to  me  somewhat  of  the  sea,  a poor  shell, 
but  suggesting  Homer.  Please  tell  your  American  that  I am 
rarely  in  town,  but  that  if  he  will  come  to  me  any  day  this  week, 
he  will  find  me  here,  happy  to  entertain  him  at  dinner.  Say  it, 
using  the  phrases.  He  has  but  to  write  to  me,  naming  his  day. — 
Browning’s  death  grieved  and  disconcerted  me.  I placed  reliance 
on  his  active  strength. — But,  as  to  all  old  men  Juvenal’s  X is  right 
absolutely.  Loss  of  friends  gives  us  our  poena  din  viventibus. 

Yours  ever, 

George  Meredith. 

I went  and  can  remember  as  though  it  were  yesterday 
his  reading,  with  his  strong,  masculine,  authoritative 
voice  and  rotund,  precise  enunciation : on  the  other 

hand,  I have  quite  forgotten  to  what  visitor  from 
America  his  message  of  courtesy  was  directed.  He 
read  that  day  not  only  from  his  recent  translations  in 
the  Homeric  hexameter,  but  from  a much  earlier 
attempt  at  original  writing  in  the  more  complicated 
“ Galliambic  55  metre  of  Catullus’s  Atys.  Once  granted 
(a  large  concession)  that  the  English  accentual  stress  is 
in  any  true  sense  a metrical  equivalent  for  the  Greek 
or  Latin  quantity,  I think  Meredith’s  experiments  in 
the  classical  metres  are  as  successful  as  anyone’s, 
though  often,  it  must  be  admitted,  at  the  cost  of 
strained  style  and  wretched  construction.  Here  are 


184 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


two  of  the  passages  from  that  day’s  reading  which  I 
find  sticking  closest  to  me  in  memory,  partly  I suppose 
because  they  ran  more  naturally  and  straightforwardly 
than  most,  partly  by  reason  of  the  rousing  and  thrilling 
sonority  with  which  he  declaimed  them.  From  the 
Iliad,  Book  XIV:— 

Not  the  sea-wave  so  bellows  abroad  when  it  bursts  upon  shingle, 
Whipped  from  the  sea’s  deeps  up  by  the  terrible  blast  of  the 
North  wind  ; 

Nay,  nor  is  ever  the  roar  of  the  fierce  fire’s  rush  so  arousing, 
Down  along  mountain-glades,  when  it  surges  to  kindle  a 
woodland  ; 

Nay,  nor  so  tonant  thunders  the  stress  of  the  gale  in  the 
oak-trees’ 

Foliage-tresses  high,  when  it  rages  to  raveing  its  utmost ; 

As  rose  then  stupendous  the  Trojans’  cry  and  Achaians’, 
Dread  upshouting  as  one  when  together  they  clashed  in  the 
conflict. 

From  his  own  Phaeton : 

All  the  end  foreseeing,  Phoebus  to  his  oath  irrevocable 
Bowed  obedient,  deploring  the  insanity  pitiless. 

Then  the  flame-outsnorting  horses  were  led  forth  : it  was  so 
decreed. 

They  were  yoked  before  the  glad  youth  by  his  sister-ancillaries. 
Swift  the  ripple  ripples  follow’d,  as  of  aureate  Helicon, 

Down  their  flanks,  while  they  impatient  pawed  desire  of  the 
distances. 

And  the  bit  with  fury  champed.  Oh  ! unimaginable  delight ! 
Unimagined  speed  and  splendour  in  the  circle  of  upper  air  ! 
Glory  grander  than  the  armed  host  upon  earth  singing  victory  ! 


The  Juvenal  reference  in  the  letter  above  quoted  is 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


185 


of  course  to  the  famous  passage  in  the  tenth  satire,*  on 
The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  (to  adopt  Johnson’s 
title  for  it),  where  in  reciting  the  penalties  of  prolonged 
age  the  satirist  rises  for  the  nonce  into  a strain  of 
sombre  magnificence  second  only,  if  second,  to  certain 

* Ut  vigeant  sensus  animi,  ducenda  tamen  sunt 
Funera  natorum,  rogus  aspiciendus  amatae 
Conjugis  et  fratris  plenseque  sororibus  urnse. 

Haec  data  poena  diu  viventibus,  ut  renovata 
Semper  clade  domus  multis  in  luctibus  inque 
Perpetuo  moerore  et  nigra  veste  senescunt,  etc.,  etc. 
Thus  diluted  by  Johnson  (whom  one  does  not  commonly  think 
of  as  a diluter)  in  lines  of  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes , some  of 
which  have  become  proverbial : — 

But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a template  prime 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime  ; 

An  age  that  melts  with  unperceiv’d  decay, 

And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away  ; 

Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears, 

Whose  night  congratulating  Conscience  cheers  ; 

The  gen’ral  fav’rite  as  the  gen’ral  friend : 

Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end  ? 

Yet  ev’n  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings, 

To  press  the  weary  minutes’  flagging  wings ; 

New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 

A sister  sickens,  or  a daughter  mourns. 

Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier. 

Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a tear ; 

Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay. 

Still  drops  some  joy  from  with ’ring  life  away; 

New  forms  arise,  and  diff’rent  views  engage, 
Superfluous  lags  the  vet ’ran  on  the  stage. 

Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release. 

And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 


186 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


kindred  passages  in  Lucretius.  The  mood  here  ex- 
pressed was  in  Meredith  quite  exceptional.  He  had 
his  dark  hours,  but  was  the  last  man  to  think  tragically 
or  indignantly  of  the  common  processes  and  ordinances 
of  nature,  as  Juvenal  makes  us  feel  that  he  thought 
of  them  even  while  he  exhorts  men  to  submission  and 
moderation  of  inordinate  desires.  Meredith’s  com- 
plaint is  never  against  nature,  but  against  the  spirit  in 
man  which  misreads  her  laws  and  murmurs  at  them. 
Acquiescence,  unembittered  acquiescence,  was  his 
doctrine  ; it  was  also,  both  by  instinct  and  discipline, 
his  practice.  He  lived  after  this  for  twenty  honoured 
years,  and  suffered  more  than  his  share  of  physical 
pain  and  infirmity.  As  disabilities  grew  on  him,  (it  is 
true  they  hardly  at  all  impaired  the  energies  of  his 
mind,)  he  bore  them  with  constancy  and  cheerfulness, 
mellowing  and  growing  the  while  in  gentleness  and  in 
power  of  sympathy  with  other  and  younger  minds. 

For  some  years  before  the  end  he  had  become  quite 
incapable  of  walking  and  received  his  friends  as  a 
prisoner  and  a fixture  to  his  armchair.  He  grew  deaf 
and  gradually  deafer,  so  that  to  contribute  any  share 
of  one’s  own  to  the  talk  became  an  effort,  and  one  had 
more  and  more  to  be  content  with  trying  to  convey 
to  his  hearing  some  suggestion  that  should  stimulate 
him  to  monologue.  But  the  intellect  remained  quite 
undimmed,  the  spirit  quite  unquenchable : his  thirst 
for  reading,  and  especially  for  French  historical  and 
biographical  reading,  abated  not  a jot : his  interest  in 
politics  and  literature  and  persons,  the  work  of  his 
contemporaries  and  the  promise  of  his  juniors,  remained 


BOX  HILL  AND  GEORGE  MEREDITH 


187 


as  keen  as  ever.  When  one  succeeded  in  drawing  a 
monologue  it  would  sometimes  be  almost  as  brilliant 
and  well-sustained  as  those  of  earlier  days.  For  two 
years  I had  for  one  reason  or  another  failed  to  see 
him,  when  one  day  in  the  mid-spring  of  1909  came  the 
news  of  his  serious  illness,  and  almost  immediately 
afterwards  of  his  death.  It  was  on  a radiant  May 
day,  a day  of  summer  rather  than  spring,  that  a little 
company  of  us,  his  friends,  assembled  by  his  cottage 
gate  and  followed  his  remains  to  the  grave  chosen 
for  them  in  Dorking  churchyard.  That  at  least  is  the 
material  account  and  external  semblance  of  what 
happened.  What  truly,  to  the  inward  and  spiritual 
sense,  happened  on  that  day  has  been  told  by  the  most 
devoted  of  his  younger  friends,  Sir  James  Barrie,  in 
words  perhaps  as  moving  as  were  ever  written  by 
one  man  of  letters  about  another.  When  the  coaches 
were  gone,  the  cottage,  to  the  unsealed  vision,  was 
according  to  Barrie  not  deserted.  There  still  sat  in  his 
chair,  as  of  yore,  an  old  man,  but  presently  his  old  age 
fell  away  from  him  (“  for  this  is  what  is  meant  by 
Death  to  such  as  he  ”).  He  rose  and  went  through  the 
door  into  the  garden,  where  he  found  all  the  men  and 
women  of  his  creation  drawn  up  to  salute  and  do  him 
reverence : thence  up  the  garden  walks— 

‘ to  the  chalet  where  he  worked,  and  good  and  brave  men  will 
for  ever  bow  proudly  before  it,  but  good  and  brave  women  will 
bow  more  proudly  still.  He  went  there  only  because  he  had  gone 
so  often,  and  this  time  the  door  was  locked  ; he  did  not  know  why 
nor  care.  He  came  swinging  down  the  path,  singing  lustily,  and 
calling  to  his  dogs,  his  dogs  of  the  present  and  the  past  ; and  they 


188 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


yelped  with  joy,  for  they  knew  they  were  once  again  to  breast  the 
hill  with  him. 

‘ He  strode  up  the  hill  whirling  his  staff,  for  which  he  had  no 
longer  any  other  use.  His  hearing  was  again  so  acute  that  from 
far  away  on  the  Dorking  road  he  could  hear  the  rumbling  of  a 
coach.  It  had  been  disputed  whether  he  should  be  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey  or  in  a quiet  churchyard,  and  there  came  to 
him  somehow  a knowledge  (it  was  the  last  he  ever  knew  of  little 
things)  that  people  had  been  at  variance  as  to  whether  a casket 
of  dust  should  be  laid  away  in  one  hole  or  in  another,  and  he  flung 
back  his  head  with  the  old  glorious  action,  and  laughed  a laugh 
4 broad  as  ten  thousand  beeves  at  pasture.’ 

‘ Box  Hill  was  no  longer  deserted.  When  a great  man  dies — 
and  this  was  one  of  the  greatest  since  Shakespeare — the  immortals 
await  him  at  the  top  of  the  nearest  hill.  He  looked  up  and  saw  his 
peers.  They  were  all  young,  like  himself.  He  waved  the  staff  in 
greeting.  One,  a mere  stripling,  4 slight  unspeakably,’  R.  L.  S., 
detached  himself  from  the  others,  crying  gloriously,  4 Here’s  the 
fellow  I have  been  telling  you  about  ! ’ and  ran  down  the  hill  to 
be  the  first  to  take  his  Master’s  hand.  In  the  meanwhile  an  empty 
coach  was  rolling  on  to  Dorking.  ’ 


CHAPTER  XI 

WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 

Probably  there  never  lived  in  any  community  an 
individual  mark  the  sense  of  whose  existence  was  more 
constantly  and  forcibly  present  to  the  general  mind 
than  was  that  of  Mr.  Gladstone  to  the  English  mind 
during  the  prolonged  plenitude  of  his  powers.  It 
was  not  merely  the  energies  he  displayed  and  the 
victories  he  achieved  in  legislative  and  administrative 
spheres  that  thus  occupied  the  public  consciousness. 
It  was  the  sense  of  his  being  a great  and  pre-eminent 
personality,  possessing  in  a singular  degree  that 
heightened  intensity  of  being,  that  mysterious  quality, 
as  undefinable  as  it  is  unmistakable,  to  which  we  give 
the  name  of  genius.  To  give  instances  of  the  com- 
mand he  exercised  over  assemblies  whether  popular 
or  deliberative,  would  be  to  waste  words  ; the  history 
of  his  time  and  country,  the  memories  of  the  surviving 
thousands  of  those  who  heard  him,  are  full  of  them. 
Acknowledgment  of  his  personal  pre-eminence  and 
magnetism,  of  the  effluence  from  him  of  forces  both 
spiritual  and  physical  exceeding  those  of  other  men, 
imposed  itself  independently  of  any  belief  in  the  wisdom 
of  his  words  or  in  the  righteousness  of  the  causes 
which  he  pleaded,  although  his  own  always  fervent 

189 


190 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


conviction  of  such  wisdom  and  righteousness  no  doubt 
contributed  to  the  impression  made.  It  was  possible 
to  come  away  from  listening  to  any  of  his  great  efforts 
on  the  affairs  of  the  Near  East  or  of  Ireland,  or  on 
domestic  reform  or  any  disputable  matter  whatever, 
a still  unconverted  opponent,  but  not  a whit  the  less 
thrilled  and  spell-bound.  The  spare,  erect,  com- 
manding figure,  the  grandly  modelled  and  deeply 
furrowed  features,  the  vivid,  almost  luminous,  alabaster- 
like pallor  of  the  skin,  with  the  pure  tint,  even  in 
extreme  age,  of  the  rare  flush  when  it  came,  the  for- 
midable roll  and  far-reaching  flash  of  the  eye,  like  that 
which  I have  seen  an  old  condor  in  captivity  cast  upon 
the  crowd  from  his  rock-perch  in  the  public  garden, 
made  his  mere  platform  presence  impressive  beyond 
all  others,  even  before  there  came  into  play  the  com- 
manding sonorities  of  the  voice  and  every  natural 
resource  as  well  as  every  practised  skill  of  the  master 
orator.  The  Miltonic  quotation  for  calling  up  his  as- 
pect and  presence  in  public  debate  is  hackneyed,  but 
fits  so  perfectly  that  I cannot  forbear  to  repeat  it : — 

— “ with  grave 

Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed 
A pillar  of  state.  Deep  on  his  front  engraven 
Deliberation  sat,  and  public  care  ” — 

— “ Sage  he  stood, 

With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies  ; his  look 
Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 
Or  summer’s  noontide  air.” 

In  saying  that  he  possessed  every  skill  and  every  re- 


WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 


191 


source  of  the  practised  orator  I should  have  made  one 
reservation.  Epigrammatic  pith  and  point,  the  power 
of  launching  phrases  that  lit  up  the  subject  in  a flash 
or  confounded  opponents  with  one  thrust,  were  not 
among  his  gifts.  Amplitude  and  plenitude,  rhetorical 
abundance  and  iteration,  were  rather  his  weapons. 
As  a writer  most  readers  feel  him  to  be  distinctly, 
sometimes  even  distressingly,  wordy.  But  of  words 
when  they  were  delivered  with  such  intensity  of  con- 
viction, and  in  tones  of  such  persuasion  and  command, 
as  were  his  in  public  speaking,  it  seemed  as  though 
one  could  never  have  too  much  or  even  enough. 

Quite  apart  from  the  conspicuousness  of  a public 
occasion,  or  the  contagion  of  the  collective  enthusi- 
asm of  an  audience,  one  was  apt  at  any  time,  so  long 
as  he  remained  among  us,  to  become  suddenly  aware 
in  the  street  of  the  approach  of  a magnetic  personality, 
one  that  made  itself  felt,  it  might  be,  some  fifty  yards 
away  through  the  press,  before  one  had  time  to  realize 
that  this  was  Mr.  G.  coming  along, — “ Mr.  G.”  was 
the  ordinary  appellation  in  use  among  secretaries  and 
other  associates  and  intimates  of  his  circle.  An 
intimate  frequenter  of  that  circle  I never  was,  though 
several  of  its  members  were  my  friends,  and  though 
I came  in,  at  longish  intervals  through  nearly  thirty 
years,  for  an  occasional  share  of  the  great  man’s  own 
courtesy  and  kindness.  The  first  time  I met  him  was  at 
Naworth,  the  Border  seat  of  the  Carlisle  Howards,  the 
same  romantically  placed,  historically  famous,  and  in 
those  days  delightfully  hospitable  house  where  I had 
first  met  Robert  Browning  a few  years  before.  This 


192 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


was  at  the  beginning  of  September,  1873,  when  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  in  his  fourth  year  of  office  as  Prime 
Minister  and  the  sixty-fourth  of  his  age.  He  had  been 
on  an  official  visit  to  the  Queen  at  Balmoral,  and  the 
route  by  which  he  had  chosen  to  leave  was  a long 
day’s  walk,  over  some  of  the  roughest  tracks  and 
through  some  of  the  wildest  scenery  in  the  Grampians, 
to  Kingussie  Station  on  the  Highland  Railway.  Hav- 
ing slept  one  night  at  Kingussie,  he  took  train  the  next 
day  to  Carlisle,  and  arrived  at  Naworth  in  the  evening, 
to  all  appearance  perfectly  fresh  and  unfatigued  by 
his  long  tramp  of  the  day  before.  My  occasional 
after-meetings  with  him  used  to  be  either  again  at 
the  same  house,  or  at  one  or  another  of  several  houses 
of  his  friends  or  connections  in  town  and  country, 
and  occasionally  in  later  days  under  his  own  roof  in 
London. 

Politics  were  never  a main  interest  of  mine,  except 
so  far  as  they  must  be  more  or  less  the  interest  of  every 
citizen ; and  however  much  I might  enjoy  hearing 
Mr.  Gladstone  dilate  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  experience 
on  the  political  history  of  his  own  time  (and  in  this  he 
was  ever  at  his  best),  to  challenge  him  to  a conversation 
on  politics  I should  have  thought  an  impertinence. 
His  second  dominant  study  and  preoccupation,  theo- 
logy,  was  for  me  also  ruled  out  by  my  lack  of  compe- 
tence. But  there  were  few  other  subjects  of  historical 
or  literary  interest  on  which  he  was  not  ready  and 
equipped  to  talk ; and  there  were  two  in  particular, 
Homer  and  Dante,  which  he  had  studied  with  as  much 
zeal  and  persistency  as  any  professed  specialist  in 


WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 


193 


either  field.  Always  strongly  impressed  while  con- 
versation with  him  lasted,  it  generally  happened  to 
me,  on  thinking  it  over  afterwards,  to  realize  that 
what  had  impressed  me  had  been  less  what  he  said 
than  the  way  he  said  it,  less  the  pertinence  or  originality 
of  his  matter  than  his  fine  manner  and  potent  tempera- 
ment in  discourse.  In  those  first  days  at  Naworth, 
I remember,  I came  in  for  a sample  of  what  struck 
me  as  not  being  by  any  means  his  best.  An  oppor- 
tunity presenting  itself,  I strove  hard  to  make  him, 
with  the  photograph  before  us,  share  my  enthusiasm 
for  a certain  splendid  and  almost  uninjured  Greek 
fourth-century  head  of  a goddess,  in  all  probability 
Aphrodite,  discovered  not  long  before  in  Armenia  and 
then  under  offer  to  the  British  Museum  by  the  dealer 
Castellani.  Any  and  every  Greek  subject  that  might 
be  broached  led  Mr.  Gladstone’s  mind  at  once  and 
inevitably  to  Homer.  Naturally  I did  not  disclose 
the  fact  that  I was  one  of  the  reviewers  who  some  time 
earlier,  in  dealing  with  his  volume  Juventus  Mundi, 
had  expressed  without  compromise  the  opinion  (shared 
by  practically  all  trained  scholars  and  archaeologists) 
that  no  Homeric  critic  had  ever  shown,  along  with  so 
minute  and  systematically  tabulated  a knowledge  of 
the  text,  such  ingenious  perversity  as  he  in  comment 
and  interpretation.  For  one  thing  Mr.  Gladstone  held, 
and  worked  out  with  insistent  affirmation  and  detail, 
the  theory  that  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  were  indis- 
putably the  work  of  a single  individual  poet ; that  so 
far  as  concerns  the  war  of  Troy  in  its  human  aspects 
the  Iliad  is  strictly  historical,  and  that  as  to  the  gods 


194 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  goddesses  who  play  so  large  a part  in  the  story, 
they  and  their  several  characters  and  the  Olympian 
system  to  which  they  belong  are  the  actual  creation 
of  Homer  himself.  I found  that  these  rooted  con- 
victions concerning  Homer  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
being  much  interested  in  my  Aphrodite  head,  or  even 
admitting  that  it  could  be  Aphrodite  at  all.  Looking 
upon  Homer  as  the  one  responsible  founder  and 
“ maker  ” (his  own  word)  of  the  Greek  religion,  and 
regulator  of  the  functions  and  precedence  of  the 
Greek  gods — as  it  were  a kind  of  Lord  Chamberlain 
of  Olympus — he  had  decided,  from  the  more  or  less 
humiliating  predicaments  in  which  the  poet  puts  her 
both  in  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  that  Homer  had  for 
moral  reasons  deliberately  made  Aphrodite  ridiculous. 
Ridiculous,  or  at  least  trivial,  she  must  accordingly 
remain ; therefore  the  divinity  represented  in  this 
grand  head  could  not  be  she.  On  this  theme  he  dilated 
with  unquestioning  energy  and  conviction.  It  was 
no  use  quoting  the  “ Venus  of  Milo  ” and  other  well- 
known  existing  types  of  a noble  and  dignified  Aphrodite. 
Of  ideas  running  counter  to  his  preconceptions  his 
mind  was  not  receptive,  and  his  quite  unfounded 
negative  assurance  on  this  point  could  not  be  shaken. 
I was  half  inclined  at  the  time  to  suppose  that  his  cold- 
ness in  response  to  my  enthusiasm  must  arise  from 
caution  lest  I should  have  designs  upon  the  public 
purse  in  connection  with  the  purchase  of  this  head. 
If  so,  his  caution  was  belated,  for  the  purchase,  though 
I did  not  know  it  at  the  time,  had  actually  been  con- 
cluded ten  days  before. 


WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 


195 


But  his  mind,  as  I had  occasion  more  than  once  to 
observe,  seemed  always  in  an  alert  attitude  of  self- 
defence  against  any  suggestion  that  seemed  to  point  to 
an  increased  expenditure  from  the  public  purse.  Con- 
versation having  one  day  turned  on  public  salaries  and 
the  relative  scales  of  pay  for  this  or  that  kind  of 
service,  Mr.  Gladstone  said  to  me,  “ I for  one  would 
never  be  a party  to  increasing  the  salaries  of  you 
gentlemen  of  the  British  Museum,  for  a more  delightful 
occupation  I cannot  conceive.”  I forbore  to  ask  the 
great  man  whether  he  would  push  this  view  to  its  logical 
conclusion : whether,  for  instance,  he  would  reduce  the 
salary  of  a Prime  Minister  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure 
he  might  take  in  his  work,  or  whether  he  would  go  the 
whole  length  with  the  late  William  Morris,  who  held,  if 
I remember  aright,  that  the  most  unpleasant  kinds  of 
labour  ought  to  be  the  best  paid,  and  that  the  coal- 
heaver,  the  dustman,  and  the  scavenger  ought  to  be  con- 
soled for  the  nature  of  their  job  by  being  given  only  about 
two  hours’  work  a day  and  allowed  during  the  rest  of 
their  time  to  spark  about  in  velvet  and  sables.  I merely 
agreed  with  his  opinion  of  the  Museum  life  and  work. 

Other  talks  which  I specially  well  remember  were 
marked,  not  by  any  such  kind  of  critical  perversity 
as  those  about  Homer,  but  rather  by  the  vehement 
affirmation  of  something  commonplace  and  generally 
acknowledged.  Young’s  Night  Thoughts  were  men- 
tioned, and  Mr.  Gladstone  quoted  some  lines  of  the 
poem  (I  cannot  remember  which),  lines  of  a gloomy  and 
grand  enough  pomposity  in  their  imitative  sub- 
Miltonic  manner ; and  went  on  to  speak  of  the  work 


196 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


in  general  with  respectful  admiration,  in  the  tone  which 
had  been  habitual  to  an  earlier  generation  than  mine, 
or  even,  I should  have  supposed,  than  his  own.  He 
further  reminded  his  hearers  of  the  extraordinarily 
high  place — equal  to  or  higher  than  that  of  Paradise 
Lost  itself — which  the  Night  Thoughts  had  held  for 
several  generations  in  the  esteem  of  continental  readers, 
especially  in  France  and  Germany.  “ But,”  he  then 
burst  out,  bringing  his  fist  down  with  something  of 
the  flash  and  thunder  of  righteous  indignation  which 
so  often  signalized  his  public  utterances,  “ but  the 
man  was  a lickspittle  and  a sycophant ; he  was  a 
shameless,  fawning  preferment-hunter.”  And  he  went 
on  to  denounce  the  grovelling  flattery  of  Young’s 
miscellaneous  dedications  to  every  kind  of  nobleman 
and  place-holder,  no  matter  how  disreputable,  his  greed 
and  baseness  in  hanging  on  in  early  life  as  a suppliant 
for  patronage  to  the  infamous  Duke  of  Wharton,  and 
later  in  disgracing  his  cloth  by  subservience  to  the 
King’s  mistress,  Lady  Yarmouth.  He  wound  up  by 
dwelling  on  the  betterment  of  the  times,  which  would 
make  such  proceedings  on  the  part  of  such  a man 
now  equally  needless  and  impossible. 

The  best  talk  about  literature  in  which  I can  remem- 
ber Mr.  Gladstone  taking  a leading  part  turned  on  the 
nature  and  elements  of  tragedy,  and  on  the  difference 
between  themes  inherently  tragic  and  those  which 
owed  their  tragic  character  mainly  to  their  treatment. 
Some  examples  from  Greek  and  Elizabethan  drama 
having  been  discussed,  Mr.  Gladstone  presently,  in 
his  most  earnest  and  arresting  manner,  affirmed  that 


WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 


197 


in  his  judgment  no  theme  was  either  more  tragic  in 
itself  or  more  heightened  in  effect  by  its  treatment 
than  that  of  Scott’s  Bride  of  Lammermoor . He  in- 
sisted on  the  circumstances  of  the  deadly  hereditary 
hate,  fresher  and  better  grounded  than  that  of  Mon- 
tagues and  Capulets,  between  the  houses  of  Ravens- 
wood  and  Ashton,  and  on  the  sense  of  such  fixed 
implacable  hate  foredooming  to  disaster  what  might 
under  other  stars  have  been  the  reconciling  loves  of 
Edgar  and  Lucy.  He  dwelt  on  the  heightening  of  all 
the  actions  and  passions  by  the  romantic  gloom  of 
the  scenery  amid  which  the  tale  unfolds  itself,  and  by 
the  grim  staves  of  legendary  prophecy  represented  as 
current  in  the  minds  of  the  common  people  and 
creating  from  the  first  an  atmosphere  of  dire  expectancy 
and  awe.  He  reminded  us  how  such  prophetic  saws  and 
staves  are  not  only  ever  on  the  lips  of  the  hateful 
warlock,  Elsie  Gourlay,  but  how  they  darken  with 
tragic  foreknowledge  even  that  almost  incomparable, 
almost  fully  Shakespearean,  comic  and  pathetic  crea- 
tion of  the  old  steward  Caleb  Balderstone ; and  he 
dilated  on  the  terrible  intensity  of  the  scene  of  the  mad 
bride-murderess  on  her  wedding  night,  and  on  the 
foretold  but  not  less  thrilling  climax  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  last  heir  of  Ravenswood  in  the  Kelpie’s 
Flow.  None  of  those  present  was  disposed  to  contest 
on  general  grounds  the  claim  thus  made  for  Scott’s 
masterpiece,  I least  of  all ; * and  the  further  talk,  to 

* Let  me  take  this  opportunity  of  expressing  my  extreme  dissent 
from  the  slighting  estimate  of  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor  given 
by  Dr.  T.  F.  Henderson  in  the  Cambridge  History  of  Literature 
(vol.  xii,  p.  22). 


198 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


which  Mr.  Gladstone  listened  attentively  but  did  not, 
if  I remember  aright,  contribute  much,  turned  on 
certain  doubts  and  reservations  to  be  made  in  regard 
to  it ; as  for  instance,  whether  some  of  the  incidents, 
such  as  those  of  the  wild  bull  and  the  crash  of  lightning 
on  Wolfe’s  Crag  in  the  opening  chapters,  did  not  push 
romantic  coincidence  to  the  point  of  melodrama,  and 
whether  the  Master  himself  is  not  a character  par- 
taking as  much  of  the  externally  and  conventionally 
melodramatic  as  of  the  truly  tragic.  And  how,  we 
all  agreed  in  wondering,  could  the  magician  in  his 
carelessness  possibly  have  allowed  himself  to  introduce, 
as  he  does,  the  finely  conceived  incident  of  the  appari- 
tion to  the  Master  beside  the  Mermaid’s  well  of  the 
spirit  of  old  Alice  at  the  moment  of  her  death  with 
an  apology  to  the  rationalist  and  sceptical  which  robs 
it  of  half  its  effect  ? 

Another  particularly  vivid  memory  of  Mr.  Gladstone 
remaining  with  me  is  of  an  utterance  humorously 
verging  on  the  political.  (As  a rule  I ventured  to  think 
him  not  at  his  best  in  humorous  moments,  and  even 
that  his  countenance  at  such  moments  lost  something 
of  its  paramount  distinction,  his  smile  of  fun  having 
in  it  rather  more  of  slyness  than  of  sweetness.)  In 
the  early  autumn  of  1881  he  and  I were  walking  side 
by  side  along  a garden  path  at  Hoar  Cross,  the  country 
house  of  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  staunchest  political 
allies,  Lord  Halifax.  He  was  suffering  from  an  attack 
of  lumbago,  and  walked  with  his  back  bent  and  his 
hand  held  to  the  place  where  the  pain  was.  Having 
once  or  twice  tried  to  straighten  himself  up  and  found 


WILLIAM  EWART  GLADSTONE 


199 


the  effort  hurt  him,  he  turned  to  me,  still  stooping  with 
his  hand  to  his  back,  and  fastening  his  eyes  on  mine, 
said  with  a manner  half  jocular  half  distressful,  but 
impressive  as  always,  “ I don’t  know  whether  to  treat 
it  by  the  method  of  conciliation  or  coercion.”  A few 
days  later  followed  the  great  speech  at  Leeds  de- 
nouncing the  policy  of  Mr.  Parnell  and  his  associates 
as  one  of  “ marching  through  rapine  to  dismember- 
ment,” and  a little  later  again  the  administrative  act 
of  consigning  the  Irish  leader  to  Kilmainham  jail. 
“ Conciliation  versus  coercion” — the  phrase  very  soon 
became  a regular,  habitual  and  threadbare  one  in 
the  course  of  the  Home  Rule  controversies  which 
followed.  But  as  spoken  at  such  a moment  in  the 
Hoar  Cross  garden  it  struck  freshly  and  significantly 
upon  my  ear. 

It  was  at  Cannes,  in  January,  1898,  that  I last  had 
sight  and  speech  of  the  great  man.  He  was  there  as 
the  guest  of  Lord  and  Lady  Rendel,  hoping  to  find 
from  the  climate  some  alleviation  of  the  extremely 
painful  illness  (I  believe  internal  cancer  in  the  face 
near  the  eye)  which  had  laid  hold  upon  him.  I hap- 
pened to  be  also  there,  as  a visitor  in  another  house. 
Being  well  acquainted  with  his  hosts,  I went  to  call  on 
them  as  a matter  of  course,  without  dreaming  that  I 
should  be  able  to  see  their  suffering  guest,  upon  whose 
attention,  under  such  circumstances,  I had  no  claim 
whatever  either  of  intimacy  or  of  special  allegiance. 
But  they  said  they  were  sure  he  would  like  to  shake 
hands  with  me,  and  took  it  upon  themselves  to  send 
him  word  that  I was  there.  To  my  surprise  he  sent 


200 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


for  me,  just  as  he  was  getting  into  the  carriage  for  his 
customary  invalid  drive,  and  with  a manner  of  beautiful 
grace  and  courtesy,  though  evidently  in  severe  pain, 
said  that  he  was  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
speaking  with  me,  that  he  wished  it  were  in  his  power  to 
speak  more  and  better,  and  bade  me  a grave,  almost 
solemn  good-bye,  as  though  he  felt  that  the  end  was 
drawing  near.  A kindlier,  even  a more  touching, 
last  memory  of  the  illustrious  veteran  I could  scarcely 
have  had  to  carry  away.  He  died  in  his  own  home 
some  four  months  later. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON 

From  the  thirty  or  all  but  thirty  years  which  I 
spent  living  at  and  working  for  the  British  Museum 
there  naturally  lingers  in  my  mind  a varied  medley 
of  memories.  But  how  attempt  to  sift  and  sort  them  ? 
How  single  out  this  or  that  group  for  inclusion  in  a 
budget,  such  as  this  is  meant  to  be,  of  recollections  of 
special  places  and  individual  persons  ? To  call  the 
British  Museum  a place  would  seem  a misnomer. 
Regarded  as  an  area  in  the  heart  of  London  it  is  incon- 
siderable. Regarded  as  an  architectural  monument 
it  is  certainly  less  impressive  than  its  designers  intended 
it  to  be.  Regarded  for  its  contents  and  purposes  it 
is  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  epitome  of  the  civiliza- 
tion of  the  world.  No  single  imagination  could  frame 
or  grasp  an  adequate  conception  of  what  is  contained 
under  that  dome  and  in  those  galleries  at  Bloomsbury. 
The  name  Bloomsbury  has  in  itself  somehow  a trivial 
sound  and  bourgeois  associations.  What  name  could 
be  too  august,  too  rich  with  connotations  at  once  of 
learning  and  of  romance,  to  be  bestowed  on  that 
treasure-house  where  are  assembled,  besides  the  richest 
extant  store  of  the  written  and  printed  products  of 
man’s  mind,  a share  so  vast  and  in  quality  so  incom- 

201 


202 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


parable  of  the  choicest  examples  of  his  handiwork  ? 
Though  one  of  the  latest  of  all  the  great  museums  of 
the  Old  World  in  its  date  of  foundation,  it  may  be 
counted  the  richest  of  them  all  in  contents.  Library 
and  galleries  together,  even  since  the  natural  history 
collections  were  transferred  to  another  part  of  the 
town,  the  treasures  sheltered  behind  that  colonnade 
and  under  those  roofs  are  unmatchable.  To  have  for 
one’s  life-work  a responsible  share  in  their  custody, 
their  management  and  augmentation,  should  surely 
be  a thing  to  fill  one’s  days  with  pride  and  to  exalt  the 
gait  of  one’s  ingoings  and  outgoings — 

Well,  well,  I suppose  no  one,  however  privileged  his 
or  her  vocation,  has  the  sense  of  such  privilege  always 
consciously  in  mind.  Daily  duties  are  daily  duties 
whatever  their  nature,  and  one’s  tendency  is  to  go 
about  them  in  an  everyday,  which  is  as  much  as  to 
say  in  a humdrum,  spirit.  It  might  even  be  contended 
that  those  among  us  are  the  luckiest  whose  round  of 
bread-winning  duties  is  really  humdrum  and  dull,  so 
that  the  delights  of  art  and  literature,  and  of  conver- 
sance with  things  of  beauty  and  the  mind,  being  reserved 
for  the  hours  of  leisure,  may  appeal  all  the  more  for- 
cibly to  sensibilities  undulled  by  habit.  Speaking 
for  myself,  I cannot  pretend  that  I was  habitually 
conscious  of  any  special  pride  or  privilege  in  living  in 
an  official  house  behind  the  long  railing  in  Great 
Russell  Street,  and  being  saluted  by  liveried  guardians, 
and  passing  up  the  steps  and  under  the  portico  of 
the  great  fagade  on  my  way  to  my  daily  duties.  The 
duties  themselves  involved,  no  doubt,  one  special 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  203 


and  unmistakable  kind  of  pleasure,  namely  that  arising 
from  a consciousness  of  faculties  necessarily,  from  the 
very  nature  of  their  employment,  sharpening  by  daily 
exercise  in  the  expert’s  work  of  technical  knowledge 
and  discrimination.  At  the  same  time  a large  pro- 
portion of  the  objects  upon  which  such  faculties  had 
to  be  employed,  at  any  rate  in  the  special  department 
of  which  I had  charge,  namely  that  of  prints  and 
drawings,  were  dull  enough  in  themselves,  the  tedious 
uninspired  output  of  scores  and  hundreds  of  mechanical 
plodders  of  all  schools.  A minority,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  of  a kind  to  awaken  and  keep  awake  whatever 
capacity  of  delighted  appreciation,  technical,  aesthetic, 
and  imaginative,  one  might  possess.  Use  and  familiar- 
ity could  not  much  or  permanently  dull  the  zest  of 
studying  and  handling  and  having  charge  of  the  most 
inspired  and  intimately  personal  handiwork  of  a 
Botticelli  or  a Raphael  or  a Michelangelo,  a Diirer 
or  a Rembrandt,  a Turner  or  a Constable  or  a Blake, 
although  on  this  or  that  day  the  sense  of  delighted 
admiration  for  and  privileged  intimacy  with  such 
spirits  through  their  handiwork  might  and  did  strike 
home  more  deeply  and  happily  than  on  others. 

Furthermore,  the  mere  necessary  going  to  and  fro 
between  one’s  dwelling-house  and  one’s  work  was  apt 
at  any  casual  moment  to  rouse  one  to  a sudden  thrilling 
pitch  of  delight  in  human  achievement  and  of  activity 
in  the  imaginative  reconstruction  of  past  glories. 
During  all  the  earlier  years  of  my  service  the  approach 
to  my  department  was  through  the  Elgin  room. 
Passing  several  times  every  day  these  fragments  of 


204 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  finest  and  most  felicitous  of  all  achievements  of 
human  art,  seeing  them  close  at  hand  by  every  kind 
of  light  or  half-light  which  an  enclosed  and  roofed 
gallery  and  the  varying  dimness  of  the  London  atmo- 
sphere could  afford,  one  took  their  glory  for  granted 
perhaps  a hundred  times  against  once  or  twice  that 
one  paused  to  realize  and  respond  to  it  anew.  And 
more  rarely  still  one  caught  oneself  in  the  endeavour 
to  restore  in  imagination  the  temple  with  its  pedi- 
mental  groups,  of  which  these  were  but  the  angle 
figures  spared  when  the  Venetian  bomb-shells  cast 
down  and  shattered  the  rest,  and  to  give  thanks  that 
against  that  special  episode  in  the  unceasing  world- 
tragedy  of  the  Ruins  of  Time  there  is  this  one  consola- 
tion at  least  to  be  set  off,  that  here  in  the  Bloomsbury 
gallery  these  fragments  are  placed  near  enough  to 
the  eye  for  their  perfections  to  be  gauged  and  studied, 
to  be  realized  and  taken  in  and  absorbed,  as  could 
never  have  been  the  case  when  they  stood  when  the 
building  was  intact,  serving  a merely  decorative  purpose 
in  their  pedimental  angles  forty  feet  above  the  eye. 
Of  all  random  denunciations,  Byron’s  tirade  against 
Lord  Elgin,  in  the  Curse  of  Minerva , for  removing 
these  master  works  from  their  shattered  pediments  is 
perhaps  the  most  perverse  and  foolish. 

But  the  occupation  of  a museum  official  is  not  con- 
cerned only  with  the  treasures  of  human  handiwork 
under  his  care  or  coming  daily  under  his  eye.  He 
needs  also  to  be  a student  of  human  character,  and 
has  plenty  of  scope  for  any  faculty  in  that  kind  with 
which  nature  or  experience  may  have  endowed  him. 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  205 


For  one  thing,  it  is  a chief  part  of  his  duty  to  win  the 
regard  and  confidence  of  private  collectors,  to  help 
and  stimulate  them  in  their  pursuits,  putting  his 
knowledge  at  their  disposal  but  making  them  feel  the 
while  that  their  prime,  their  binding,  duty  is  to  acknow- 
ledge such  help  by  destining  their  collections  in  the 
long  run  to  enrich  the  institution  which  he  serves. 
It  is  open  to  a collector  to  do  one  of  three  things 
with  his  treasures  after  his  death : leave  them  intact 
to  his  heirs  : leave  them  to  be  dispersed  by  auction, 
or  leave  them  to  enrich  some  public  gallery  or  museum. 
The  first  alternative  generally  attracts  him  least. 
The  second  appeals  to  him  by  the  thought  of  the  excite- 
ment and  competition,  such  as  have  been  the  zest  of 
his  own  life,  which  his  sale  will  arouse  among  othei1 
amateurs  and  collectors,  folk  of  his  own  kidney,  after 
he  is  gone.  The  third  offers  the  reward  of  the  perman- 
ent recognition  which  will  await  his  name  as  that  of  an 
enlightened  amateur  and  national  or  civic  benefactor. 
It  is  the  value  and  excellence  of  this  last  reward  which 
those  public  guardians  of  such  things  whom  he  may 
count  among  his  friends  are  bound  with  all  their  power 
to  impress  upon  him. 

Apart  from  such  practical  ends,  a study  interesting 
in  itself  might  doubtless  be  made  of  the  comparative 
psychology  of  collectors,  of  persons  in  whom  the  love 
of  having  and  handling  picked  works  of  art  and  handi- 
craft for  their  own  is  a passion  innate  or  acquired. 
In  creative  literature,  I do  not  remember  any  special 
instance  of  a character  in  whom  the  collecting  passion 
is  incarnate  except  that  famous  one  of  Cousin  Pons 


206 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


in  Balzac’s  Les  Parents  Pauvres.  In  life,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  observe,  the  passion  is  apt  to  lay 
hold  on  persons  of  the  most  diverse  origin  and  tempera- 
ment having  nothing  else  in  common  between  them. 
Of  those  whose  collections  have  in  my  time  enriched 
our  national  museum,  including  my  own  department, 
some  of  the  most  notable  have  been  Henry  Vaughan, 
George  Salting,  John  Malcolm  of  Poltalloch  and 
William  Mitchell.  Vaughan  was  the  son  of  a wholesale 
hatmaker  in  Southwark,  and  a man  of  the  most  quiet 
and  retiring,  devoutly  beneficent  and  charitable  dis- 
position. Early  travel  and  inborn  instinct  implanted 
in  him  a love  of  art  which  made  collecting  one  of  his 
two  absorbing  pursuits  through  all  his  length  of  days, 
the  other  being  charity  and  good  works.  To  his  gifts 
and  bequests  half  the  public  galleries  in  the  kingdom, 
and  my  own  department  at  the  British  Museum  in 
particular,  owe  much  of  their  wealth  in  the  works  of 
Michelangelo,  as  well  as  of  Turner,  Flaxman,  Constable 
and  the  other  English  masters  of  that  age.  George 
Salting  was  the  Australian-born  son  of  parents  originally 
Danish , who  after  an  education  for  very  brief  terms  each 
at  Eton  and  Oxford,  but  chiefly  at  Sydney  University, 
which  seemed  to  promise  aptitude  for  literature  and 
the  classics,  was  diverted  by  a winter  spent  at  Rome 
to  a passion  for  the  visible  and  tangible  treasures  of 
mediaeval,  Renaissance,  and  Oriental  art  and  handi- 
craft. Living  the  simplest  of  bachelor  lives  in  cham- 
bers at  the  Thatched  House,  St.  James’s,  Salting 
spent  practically  all  his  days  in  the  sale-rooms  of  London 
and  the  income  of  a great  fortune,  the  capital  of  which 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  207 

he  had  himself  vastly  increased,  on  the  purchase  of 
treasures  chiefly  in  the  form  of  pottery,  enamels, 
bronzes,  medals  and  engraved  gems ; and  in  the  end 
he  distributed  them,  as  every  good  collector  should, 
among  the  various  museums  of  London.  Malcolm  of 
Poltalloch  on  his  part  was  a great  highland  laird, 
whose  passion  as  a collector — to  a large  extent  stimu- 
lated as  well  as  directed  by  an  inseparable  fidus  Achates 
in  the  person  of  a bachelor  friend  of  education  (and 
I believe  origin)  partly  German,  William  Mitchell — 
was  for  drawings  and  prints  of  all  schools.  The 
purchase  of  his  treasures  for  the  British  Museum 
after  his  death  almost  doubled  the  importance  of  the 
department  I had  the  honour  to  serve. 

Neither  is  it  among  collectors  and  benefactors  alone 
that  a museum  official  finds  interesting  human  objects 
of  study.  He  finds  them,  if  he  has  any  eye  for  such 
studies,  among  his  colleagues  no  less.  Since  appoint- 
ments of  officials  have  come  to  be  entirely  by  the 
routine  mode  of  competitive  civil  service  examination, 
perhaps  there  is  less  scope  than  there  used  to  be  for  a 
marked  idiosyncrasy  to  guide  a man  in  the  choice 
of  a museum  career  or  to  develop  itself  during  its 
course.  But  among  my  contemporaries  and  seniors 
there  were  certainly  plenty  of  such  picturesque  and 
salient  characters.  To  name  only  one  or  two — who 
that  ever  met  Richard  Garnett  (and  during  the  ten 
years  when  he  was  superintendent  of  the  Reading 
Room  every  one  who  frequented  it  met  him  as  a 
matter  of  course)  can  have  forgotten  him  ? The  most 
genially  quaint  of  erudite  men,  the  most  helpful,  the 


208 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


most  smiling  and  queerly  attractive  to  look  at  in 
spite  of  his  stained  teeth  and  bristling  russet  stubble 
of  a beard,  he  was  not,  I suppose,  a trained  bibliographer 
in  the  full  modern  sense,  but  had  a vast  and  varied 
practical  knowledge  of  books  and  the  most  indefatig- 
ably  obliging  courtesy  in  helping  all  those  who  sought 
his  help  in  their  studies.  Sedulous  as  he  was  in  every 
museum  duty,  Garnett  found  time  for  a vast  amount 
of  reading  and  much  miscellaneous  critical  and  bio- 
graphical writing  outside  his  official  work,  and  has 
left  with  all  his  colleagues  a memory  at  which  we  cannot 
forbear  to  smile,  but  which  we  affectionately  esteem 
and  honour  none  the  less.  A colleague  of  the  same 
generation  but  of  strongly  contrasted  type  was  Wool- 
laston  Franks,  a man  of  fortune  and  of  a Cambridge 
education,  who  from  the  beginning,  whilst  he  only 
learned  the  necessary  minimum  of  the  regular  Cam- 
bridge studies,  had  ploughed  out  a path  for  himself  in 
the  pursuit  first  of  one  and  then  of  another  branch  of 
archaeology,  with  a marked  preference  for  the  antiquities 
of  mediaeval  England,  and  before  long  was  appointed 
head  of  the  newly  created  department  of  British  and 
Mediaeval  Antiquities  and  Ethnography.  One  after 
another  he  took  up  new  specialities  like  the  study  of 
pottery  and  porcelain,  first  English  and  Continental, 
then  Chinese  and  Japanese,  of  Japanese  sword-guards 
and  finger-rings,  of  drinking  vessels ; of  ancient 
Bactrian  and  Indian  gold  ornaments ; of  book-plates ; 
making  himself  a master  expert  in  one  of  these  studies 
after  another,  and  in  the  end  patriotically  bequeathing 
all  his  collections  to  the  institution  of  which  he  was  so 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  209 


great  a servant.  Franks  could  if  he  had  chosen  have 
been  a great  man  of  the  world  as  well  as  a great  anti- 
quary and  museum  keeper  ; but  for  general  society  he 
cared  little  and  was  content  with  the  hearty  affection 
and  homage  of  all  whom  community  of  pursuits  and 
interests  brought  within  his  sphere. 

Of  such  marked  and  interesting  personalities  among 
my  senior  colleagues  at  Bloomsbury,  the  one  with 
whom  I was  on  terms  of  closest  intimacy  and  of  whom 
I retain  the  warmest  recollection  was  the  keeper  of 
Greek  and  Roman  Antiquities,  Charles  Newton.  This 
is  not  a name  known  far  and  wide,  like  most  of  those 
I am  recalling  in  the  present  pages  ; nor  was  its  bearer 
in  the  full  sense  of  the  word  a man  of  genius.  That 
is  to  say  he  had  not  the  intensity  of  being,  the  radiating 
fire  of  the  spirit,  which  gives  to  the  personality  of 
genius  its  power  to  dominate  or  enthral.  But  he  had 
a character,  and  a very  marked  character,  of  his  own : 
his  actual  achievement  was  a considerable  one  in  the 
history  of  English,  nay,  of  general  Western  culture, 
and  in  the  absence  of  any  full  or  formal  biography  it 
is  right  that  some  picture  of  him,  as  living  as  may  be 
however  brief,  should  be  attempted  by  one  who  like 
myself  enjoyed  the  honour  of  his  regard  and  the 
advantage  of  his  teaching.  He  was  my  senior  by 
all  but  thirty  years,  and  I first  knew  him  when  I came 
to  London  fresh  from  my  Cambridge  degree  in  1867-68 
and  threw  myself — among  other  studies  which  I did 
my  best  at  the  same  time  to  master  and  to  expound 
in  popular  reviews  and  journals — into  the  special  study 
of  classical  archaeology.  Newton  had  then  already 


210 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


been  for  seven  years  Keeper  of  the  Department  of 
Classical  Antiquities  at  the  British  Museum.  He  had 
served  in  a subordinate  post  in  the  same  institution 
for  twelve  years  after  his  Oxford  degree  (1840-52), 
and  then  for  a spell  of  seven  years  had  held  consular 
office  in  the  Levant,  first  at  Mytilene  and  then  at 
Rhodes,  being  charged  at  the  same  time  with  represent- 
ing the  interests  of  the  British  Museum  in  Asiatic 
Turkey  and  the  islands.  The  first  great  stimulus  to 
excavation  by  Englishmen  on  the  sites  of  ancient 
and  buried  civilizations  had  been  given  by  the  under- 
takings carried  out  by  Layard  between  1842  and  1851, 
originally  on  the  personal  impulse  of  Stratford  Canning 
(afterwards  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  the  “ great 
Eltchi  ”)  and  next  on  that  of  government  for  the 
British  Museum,  at  Kouyunjik  andNimrud  and  other 
centres  of  Assyrian  and  Babylonian  empire.  It  was 
again  with  the  strong  backing  of  the  same  all-powerful 
ambassador  that  Newton  had  been  enabled,  during 
the  years  of  the  Crimean  war  and  those  next  following, 
to  carry  out  the  most  systematic  and  successful  excava- 
tions which  had  ever  been  undertaken  in  those  parts 
in  search  of  Greek  antiquities  and  inscriptions.  He  had 
been  fitted  above  other  men  for  the  task  by  a natural 
instinct — a natural  affinity,  one  might  almost  put  it, 
with  the  objects  of  his  pursuit — as  well  as  by  the  most 
careful  training  and  preparation.  A fully  equipped 
Oxford  scholar  from  Shrewsbury  and  Christchurch,  he 
possessed  besides  what  it  had  been  too  much  the  habit 
and  defect  of  English  scholarship  to  lack,  a strong  and 
well  instructed  love  for  the  extant  remains  of  Greek 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  211 


art ; while  the  records  of  Greek  public  and  private  life 
and  usage  preserved  in  lapidary  inscriptions  at  all 
times  interested  him  and  exercised  his  faculties  even 
more  than  those  handed  down  in  books. 

Both  these  classes  of  material  were  capable  of 
being  augmented  from  hour  to  hour  by  investigation 
on  the  sites  of  ancient  cities  and  burial-places,  and 
it  had  been  the  passion  of  Newton’s  life  so  to  aug- 
ment them.  The  result  of  his  labours  during  those 
responsible  years  on  the  coasts  and  in  the  islands 
of  the  Levant  had  been  to  rescue  for  the  study  and 
admiration  of  the  after-world,  and  secure  for  the 
enrichment  of  his  museum,  all  those  remains  of  the 
renowned  Mausoleum  of  Halicarnassus,  the  master- 
work  of  the  second  great  school  of  Athenian  sculptors 
and  architects  in  the  fourth  century  b.c.,  which  lay 
buried  under  the  buildings  of  the  Turkish  town  of 
Budrum : the  two  noble  colossal  portrait  figures, 

shattered  but  restorable,  of  Mausolos  himself  and  his 
wife  Artemisia ; a headless  rider  on  the  fragment  of  a 
great  rearing  horse  ; the  unbroken  head  and  forehand 
of  another  and  huger  horse  standing  with  the  bronze 
bit  intact  in  its  mouth  ; many  mutilated  great  guardian 
lions  ; many  exquisite  frieze-fragments,  some  almost 
perfectly  preserved,  of  fighting  Amazon  and  Centaur 
and  racing  charioteer ; beautifully  wrought  blocks  of 
column,  cornice,  architrave  and  capital — Newton’s 
work  had  been  to  rescue  and  secure  these,  besides  such 
a unique  and  moving  masterpiece  of  the  antique  genius 
as  the  seated  statue  of  the  sorrowing  Demeter  from 
Cnidos,  and  the  series  of  solemn  semi-Egyptian  seated 


212 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


figures  from  the  great  temple-avenue  at  Branchidse, 
with  many  treasures  more  not  here  to  be  recounted. 

These  excavations  of  Newton’s  in  the  fifties,  carried 
out  with  public  money  and  Government  backing,  were 
much  the  most  systematic  and  most  fruitful  that  had 
ever  been  attempted  on  Greek  sites,  and  did  more  than 
anything  else  to  set  the  example  and  give  the  impulse 
to  the  series  of  undertakings  in  the  same  kind,  more 
numerous  than  can  be  counted,  which  have  been 
carried  out  in  later  years  by  researchers  of  almost 
every  civilized  nationality.  Some  of  these  have  been 
much  more  highly  trained  than  he  in  the  special  and 
technical  study  of  architecture : but  in  another 

speciality,  that  is  in  epigraphy  or  the  science  of 
inscriptions,  Newton  was  a master  abreast  of  the 
foremost.  He  had  a rooted  preference  for  this  study, 
as  resting  on  firm  and  positive  data,  over  that  of  the 
archaeology  of  art,  as  developed,  chiefly  in  Germany, 
on  speculative  and  deductive  lines  which  he  held  to 
be  unsure  and  often  fanciful.  After  his  return  from 
his  labours  in  Asia  Minor  and  appointment  as  Keeper 
at  the  British  Museum,  Newton  by  his  authority  and 
influence,  though  no  longer  by  explorations  of  his 
own  conducting,  continued  on  a great  scale  the  enrich- 
ment of  his  department.  Other  explorers  under  his 
impulse  and  suggestion  discovered  and  sent  home 
precious  remains  from  Ephesus,  Priene,  Cyrene,  from 
Sicily  and  Cyprus  : and  concurrently  with  these  gains 
a parsimonious  Treasury  was  induced  to  provide  funds 
for  the  purchase,  one  after  another,  of  nearly  all  the 
chief  collections  formed  by  continental  amateurs  and 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  213 


dealers ; the  Blacas  collection  for  one ; from  the 
great  Italian  dealer  Castellani  several  collections  in 
succession,  besides  single  acquisitions  any  one  of  which 
was  apt  to  be  an  event  and  an  excitement  in  itself ; 
as  for  instance  that  magnificent,  all  but  uninjured, 
bronze  colossal  head  of  a goddess  found  in  the  farther 
parts  of  Armenia,  which  has  been  conjectured  to  have 
been  broken  from  some  famous  work,  or  replica  of  a 
work,  by  Praxiteles,  and  which  stands  scarcely  rivalled 
in  its  kind  in  any  museum  of  the  world. 

I have  said  that  Newton  had  the  passion  for  these 
things ; but  in  spite  of  his  achievement  the  word 
seems  hardly  suitable  to  a man  of  his  temperament. 
Staunch  and  even  tender  in  kindness  towards  those  he 
cared  for  and  had  learned  to  trust,  he  was  of  a reserved 
and  rather  austere  habit  in  ordinary  intercourse,  and 
by  experience  and  training  had  acquired  a degree  of 
caution  and  mistrustfulness  with  strangers  which  might 
easily  have  been  mistaken  for  cynicism.  He  had  two 
smiles,  one,  and  I fear  the  more  frequent,  cold  and 
sceptical,  but  another,  reserved  for  his  tried  friends  and 
for  young  children,  very  deeply  and  touchingly  tender. 
As  he  moved  about  with  a somewhat  shuffling  or 
flinching  gait  (for  his  feet  did  not  in  later  years  carry 
him  very  well)  among  the  noble  damaged  marbles  at 
the  British  Museum,  the  kinship  between  him  and 
them  seemed  to  strike  obviously  upon  the  eye.  True, 
his  tall  figure  was  too  spare  for  that  of  a rightly  pro- 
portioned Greek  god  or  demigod  or  sage,  but  his  head 
was  truly  Olympian.  The  hair  grew  outward  from 
the  parting  in  rich  and  waving  grizzled  masses,  to 


214 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


which  corresponded  a square  grizzled  beard  somewhat 
roughly  kempt : the  brow  was  intent  and  deeply 

corrugated,  the  features  severely  handsome  save  for  a 
broken  nose,  the  result  of  a fall ; but  this  seemed 
only  to  complete  his  facial  likeness  to  a Greek  Zeus 
injured  and  imperfectly  restored.  A great  scholar  and 
a great  gentleman,  he  was  in  all  companies  a distin- 
guished presence  and  in  all  the  best  was  made  welcome. 
His  style,  in  conversation  as  in  writing  and  lecturing, 
was  marked  by  a certain  old-fashioned  dryness  and 
dignity  scarcely  less  telling  in  its  way  than  the  richer 
colouring  of  more  expansive  or  more  imaginative 
talkers  ; and  in  dealing  with  pretension  whether  social 
or  intellectual  he  had  a vein  of  irony  the  more  effective 
for  being  kept  scrupulously  within  the  bounds  of  formal 
courtesy.  On  occasion  he  could  not  only  cuttingly 
give  but  generously  take  a lesson.  A much  younger 
colleague  in  the  Museum,  then  assistant-keeper  in  the 
department  next  to  his,  had  cause  once  to  stand  up 
against  him  and  experience  the  result.  Some  re- 
arrangements between  the  two  neighbour  departments 
were  in  progress,  and  for  a few  days  the  assistant  in 
the  department  not  Newton’s  was  left  in  charge  in  the 
absence  of  his  chief.  Newton  came  along  and  told 
him,  in  the  manner  of  one  giving  an  order,  to  carry 
out  some  of  the  removals  which  had  been  under 
discussion.  He  declined : Newton  repeated  the  instruc- 
tion more  peremptorily  : he  again  declined  : the  same 
thing  happened  a third  time,  and  Newton  retired 
with  a face  of  thunder,  threatening  “ Very  well,  I shall 
report  your  conduct  to  the  Trustees.”  The  assistant 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  215 

waited  for  some  days  expecting  trouble.  But  no 
trouble  came  ; and  the  only  result  was  that  from  that 
day  to  the  end  Newton’s  manner  to  him  became  one 
of  friendly  warmth  and  greatly  increased  regard. 
Thinking  the  matter  over,  he  had  evidently  decided 
in  his  own  mind  that  the  junior  had  been  quite  right 
in  declining  to  take  instructions  affecting  the  depart- 
ment for  which  he  was  for  the  time  being  responsible 
from  anyone  excepting  his  own  chief. 

When  I first  knew  him  he  was  only  lately  beginning 
to  come  into  the  world  again  after  an  overwhelming 
sorrow  which  left  its  mark  on  all  his  after-life.  At 
the  close  of  his  labours  in  the  Levant  he  had  been 
for  a short  while  British  consul  at  Borne,  and  had 
there  met  Ann  Mary  Severn,  the  daughter  of  Joseph 
Severn,  the  devoted  painter-friend  of  Keats.  This 
lady  was  herself  an  artist  of  truly  sensitive  hand  and 
eye,  and  by  all  accounts  a person  of  the  utmost  charm 
and  sweetness.  She  and  Newton  were  married  in  1860 
and  lived  a life  of  perfect  harmony,  she  entering  help- 
fully into  all  his  interests  and  studies,  and  devoting 
her  talent  to  the  illustration  of  his  books  and  lectures, 
until  six  years  later  she  was  suddenly  carried  away  by 
an  illness  of  a peculiarly  painful  and  tragic  character. 
As  she  lay  unwell  one  day  in  her  room  she  saw  a 
workman  killed  by  a fall  from  a scaffolding  reared 
against  an  opposite  house.  The  sight  was  more  than 
in  her  weakened  state  she  could  bear,  and  she  fell 
from  that  hour  into  a wild  delirium,  in  which  she 
could  not  endure  the  presence  of  him  she  loved  best, 
and  from  which  she  was  only  released  by  death.  He 


216 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


could  never  bring  himself  to  speak  of  her  afterwards, 
but  those  who  knew  him  best  were  conscious  that  his 
innermost  thoughts  were  always  of  his  lost  happiness. 
Come  into  the  world  again,  however,  he  did,  and  I 
used  to  meet  him  at  many  places  besides  the  scene 
of  his  official  duties  in  the  museum ; among  others 
at  the  periodical  dinners  of  the  Dilettanti,  an  ancient 
and  distinguished  convivial  society  dating  from  the  year 
1732,  which  had  in  its  day  combined  the  habit  of  high 
carouse  with  much  good  work  in  antiquarian  discovery 
and  publication,  and  still  kept  and  keeps  up  its  reputa- 
tion in  the  latter  kind  and  some  of  its  quaint  convivial 
rites  and  usages,  though  not  its  excesses,  in  the  former. 

Newton’s  discoveries  in  the  fifties  and  his  position  at 
the  museum  afterwards  had  placed  him  first  by  common 
consent  among  the  working  classical  archaeologists  of 
his  time  in  Europe.  But  that  branch  of  study  had 
since  the  days  of  Winckelmann  been  much  more 
generally  followed  and  understood  among  German 
scholars  than  among  English  ; and  after  their  triumph 
and  the  establishment  of  their  empire  in  1870  the 
Germans,  keen,  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  in  the  pursuit 
and  organization  of  every  other  science  no  less  than 
of  the  sciences  of  conquest  and  spoliation — were 
determined  to  take  a practical  lead  in  archaeological 
research  on  classic  ground.  Their  first  great  under- 
taking was  the  excavation,  by  arrangement  with  the 
Greek  Government,  of  the  site  of  the  ancient  temple  and 
sacred  enclosure  of  Zeus  at  Olympia,  a scheme  which 
had  been  for  a while  ardently  entertained,  but  never 
put  in  hand,  by  Lord  Elgin,  and  at  which  a few  tenta- 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  217 


tive  scratchings  had  later  been  actually  made  by 
the  French  under  General  Maison.  By  the  winter 
of  1874-75  this  undertaking  was  in  full  swing.  I was 
eager  to  visit  and  watch  it,  and  with  some  difficulty 
persuaded  Newton  to  meet  me  towards  the  end  of 
March  at  Athens  in  order  that  we  might  arrange  to 
travel  thence  to  Olympia  together.  Some  years  had 
gone  by  since  he  had  last  been  in  the  Levant.  It  was 
my  own  first  visit  to  Greek  soil.  I have  tried  to 
convey  in  another  place  something  of  the  thrill — 
for  such  it  must  be  to  every  scholar  not  having  a soul 
of  putty — of  my  first  sight  of  Athens  and  first  days 
spent  there,  and  shall  here  only  recall  a few  traits  of 
my  elder  companion  during  our  trip.  Travel  in  Greece 
was  then  very  different  from  what  it  is  now.  The 
isthmus  of  Corinth  had  not  then  been  cut  by  a canal, 
but  had  to  be  crossed  by  coach.  There  were  no  railways 
in  the  Peloponnese,  and  all  travel  was  either  by  coasting 
steamer,  or  by  carriage  where  there  existed  anything 
like  a road,  or  else  on  horseback.  The  town  nearest 
to  the  site  of  Olympia,  from  which  the  excavations 
were  approached  and  supplied,  was  Pyrgos.  Thither 
we  had  arranged  to  go  by  a coasting  steamer  from 
Corinth.  We  were  pacing  the  shingle  of  the  isthmus 
in  readiness  for  the  boat’s  early  start  when  to  my 
discomfiture  a cold  fit  fell  suddenly  upon  the  spirits 
of  my  companion.  He  began  conjuring  up  a vision 
of  imaginary  troubles  and  treacheries  awaiting  us  on 
our  projected  trip,  and  actually  proposed  that  we 
should  give  it  up  and  go  back  to  Athens.  I knew 
him  to  have  shown  in  the  course  of  his  career  abundant 


218 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


coolness  and  resource  in  the  presence  of  real  danger, 
and  guessed  that  there  had  come  upon  him  in  the 
morning  chill  a mood  which  is  best  explained  by  a 
passage  in  his  book  of  Travels  and  Discoveries , telling 
how  he  once  surprised  a Greek  servant  in  the  act  of 
robbing  him 

I have  not  seen  so  livid  and  hideous  a complexion  since  the 
day  when  Timoleon  Pericles  Vlasto  was  detected  stealing  coins 
from  the  British  Museum.  This  man  came  to  me  from  Smyrna 
with  an  excellent  character.  He  had  most  engaging  manners, 
and  was  always  thanking  me  for  my  goodness  to  him,  and  telling 
me  that  I was  better  than  a father  to  him.  I have  little  doubt 
that  he  would  have  cut  my  throat  with  the  same  pleasant  smile 
on  his  face.  People  in  England  wonder  how  it  is  that,  after  a 
long  residence  in  the  East,  Europeans  become  so  suspicious,  jealous, 
and  generally  cantankerous  ; but  they  forget  that  an  Englishman 
in  the  Levant  is  doomed  to  pass  his  life  surrounded  by  people  who 
may  be  described  by  the  ever-recurring  phrase  applied  by  Darius 
to  his  enemies  in  the  Behistun  inscription,  “ And  he  was  a liar.” 
The  very  air  we  breathe  in  Turkey  is  impregnated  with  lies. 

It  turned  out  not  difficult,  however,  to  talk  him 
out  of  this  momentary  mood.  We  pursued  our  journey, 
were  landed  at  Katacolo,  the  port  of  Pyrgos,  rode  to 
the  village  of  Druva,  where  the  German  scientific 
expedition  was  installed,  were  hospitably  received, 
and  spent  some  days  studying  with  intense  interest 
the  results  of  the  excavations  so  far  as  they  had  then 
been  carried.  From  the  mere  configuration  of  the 
ground,  with  the  brook  Kladeos,  its  course  marked 
at  that  season  by  flowering  Judas-trees,  running  at  an 
acute  angle  into  the  broad  shingle-bed  of  the  Alpheios 
near  the  foot  of  the  hill  Kronion,  it  was  easy  enough 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  219 


to  recognize  the  general  plan  of  the  site,  the  great 
common  centre  of  ancient  Greek  Zeus-worship  and  of 
athletic  and  poetic  contests  and  glories.  It  was  not 
too  difficult  to  reconstruct  in  the  mind’s  eye  the  aspect 
of  the  walled  and  consecrated  precinct  of  the  Altis, 
dominant  within  whose  boundaries  had  stood  the  great 
temple  of  the  god,  besides  his  open-air  altar  and  the 
hundred  other  temples  and  altars  of  Olympia,  together 
with  the  innumerable  multitude  of  votive  and  memorial 
statues,  a forest  of  bronze  and  marble,  which  had 
crowded  the  intervening  spaces.  Nay,  looking  out 
from  the  side  of  the  hill  Kronion  over  the  windings  of 
the  Alpheios,  marked  here  by  clouds  of  drifting  dust 
and  here  by  the  shimmer  of  water,  away  to  the 
gleaming  level  of  the  sea  itself,  it  was  hard  not  to  break 
in  your  mind’s  eye  the  solitude  of  that  sea-line,  and 
to  descry  in  imagination  sails  converging  from  the  west, 
and  throngs  marshalling  themselves  beside  the  river- 
mouth,  as  when  the  sons  of  Hellas  were  wont  to  assemble 
in  their  galleys  for  the  great  anniversary  from  every 
state  of  the  mainland  and  every  colony  overseas.  . . . 

But  the  immediate  daily  fruits  of  the  excavation 
were  such  as  to  leave  little  time  for  dreaming,  and  to 
raise  in  trained  minds  a hundred  absorbing  problems. 
Fragments  of  sculpture  and  architecture  were  coming 
up  as  thick  as  potatoes  under  the  spade : the  flying 
Victory  of  Paionios,  duly  identified  by  its  inscribed 
pedestal ; many  drums  of  the  columns  of  the  great 
temple  lying  regularly  in  rows  as  they  had  fallen 
outward ; the  sculptured  figures,  one  after  another 
and  all  more  or  less  shattered,  of  the  east  pediment 


220 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  the  same  temple.  Some  of  these  finds  seemed  to 
confirm,  some  very  perplexingly  to  contradict,  anticipa- 
tions formed  on  the  strength  of  ancient  guide-books 
and  histories.  The  fragments  of  the  east  pediment 
in  particular,  as  then  freshly  unearthed,  afforded  one 
obvious  such  puzzle.  The  standard  of  excellence  in 
pediment  groups  of  the  great  period  had  been  set  in 
our  minds  by  the  figures  remaining  from  the  pediments 
of  the  Parthenon  at  Athens,  those  prime  and  crowning 
treasures  of  the  British  Museum,  with  their  combination 
of  grandly  monumental  decorative  design  and  an 
almost  gem-like  finish.  But  here  were  these  Olympian 
pediments,  works  of  the  same  period  and  school,  in 
comparison  but  roughly  blocked  out  and  showing 
the  decorative  purpose  and  quality  almost  unaccom- 
panied by  any  fineness  of  detail.  Naturally  Newton 
had  in  his  guarded  way  much  to  say  and  to  suggest 
on  these  antiquarian  problems  as  each  presented 
itself  to  us,  and  naturally  his  words  were  received 
with  respectful  attention.  But  it  is  not  these  which 
after  the  lapse  of  four-and-forty  years  remain  in  my 
mind.  What  remains  perversely  and  indelibly  fixed 
there  is  a trifling  little  scene  which  occurred  on  our 
way  back  to  Athens.  Instead  of  taking  boat  again 
from  Katacolo  we  drove  from  Pyrgos  across  the  plain 
of  Elis,  by  such  a rough,  less  than  half-made  apology 
for  a road  as  then  existed,  as  far  as  Patras,  the  chief 
port  of  Northern  Peloponnese.  About  half-way  we 
stopped  for  a meal  at  a little  hostelry  in  the  village  of 
Ali  Tchelebi,  near  the  lakelet  of  the  same  name,  then 
beautifully  fringed  with  flowering  oleander  scrub. 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  221 


As  we  sat  out  after  the  meal  we  noticed  a great  hairy 
caterpillar  near  five  inches  long  crawling  perseveringly 
across  the  yard  on  some  errand  of  its  own.  We 
were  watching  its  progress  with  a mild  interest  when 
suddenly  from  a shed  at  one  side  a lean,  long-legged 
hen  came  scurrying  after  it  with  outstretched  neck, 
and  in  another  moment  had  with  a greedy  chuckle 
gobbled  it  up.  The  event  tickled  the  cynical  fibres  in 
my  old  friend’s  nature,  and  in  a rare  vein  of  smiling, 
disillusioned  worldly  wisdom  he  fell  to  moralizing 
upon  it  as  a symbol  of  the  predatory  scheme  of  life 
in  general  and  human  life  in  particular.  As  such  he 
would  often  humorously  return  to  it  in  talk  during 
after  years  in  London,  and  it  is  perhaps  this  frequency 
of  its  laughing  recall  between  us  that  has  helped  to 
keep  it  printed  so  ineffaceably  on  my  mind’s  eye. 

But  I will  end  what  I have  to  say  about  this  old 
friend  with  a memory  of  a different  stamp.  One  of  the 
things  which  had  most  united  us  from  the  first  was  the 
desire,  which  I had  begun  to  cherish  even  as  an  under- 
graduate and  which  had  been  almost  the  guiding  motive 
of  Newton’s  life,  to  see  the  study  of  classical  art  and 
archaeology,  hitherto  neglected  in  our  universities, 
take  a regular  and  recognized  place  there  beside  the 
study  of  the  classical  languages  and  literature.  In 
the  years  (1876-1884)  when  I had  charge  of  the  Fitz- 
william  Museum  at  Cambridge,  my  main  endeavour 
had  been  not  so  much  to  enrich  its  collection  of  miscel- 
laneous original  objects  of  art  as  to  save  out  of  its 
revenue  a fund  for  providing  the  first  and  indispensable 
apparatus  for  archaeological  study  in  the  shape  of  a 


222 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


gallery  of  casts  from  antique  sculpture.  The  new 
gallery  was  built  and  stocked,  and  in  April  1884  a 
representative  company  came  to  the  ceremony  of  its 
formal  opening.  The  Prince  of  Wales  was  present,  and 
among  the  speakers  were  such  practised  celebrities  as 
James  Russell  Lowell,  then  American  minister  in 
London  ; Lord  Houghton  ; Professor  Jebb,  who  had 
lately  been  public  orator  of  the  university ; and  the 
president  of  the  Royal  Academy,  Sir  Frederic  Leighton. 
I can  see  and  hear  them  now.  Lowell,  with  his  square 
and  vigorous  presence  and  his  great  square-cut  tawny 
beard  already  beginning  to  grizzle,  spoke  without 
technical  knowledge  but  with  practised  readiness  and 
genial  good  sense  as  he  regretted  the  absence  of  a 
brother  diplomat  who  chanced  to  be  a past  master  of 
these  subjects  (that  was  the  then  French  ambassador 
in  London,  M.  Waddington).  Lord  Houghton,  on 
public  occasions  always  eloquent  and  elegant  in  spite 
of  a slipshod  habit  of  dress  and  person,  spoke,  with 
sweeping  gestures  of  the  arm  and  his  scarlet  gown  half 
slipping  off  his  back,  more  aptly  and  graciously  even 
than  usual.  Jebb,  classically  pointed  and  polished 
both  in  phrase  and  delivery,  and  Leighton,  floridly 
handsome  and  winning  in  person  and  in  the  use  of 
tongue  and  brush  alike  ever  gracefully  accomplished, 
were  both  at  their  best.  But  far  the  most  effective 
speech  of  the  day,  despite  its  somewhat  antiquated 
style  and  stiff  delivery,  was  Newton’s.  For  many 
years  of  his  life  he  had  laboured  in  vain  to  get  his 
beloved  studies  officially  recognized  and  admitted  into 
the  curriculum  of  his  own  university  of  Oxford.  To 


BRITISH  MUSEUM  AND  SIR  CHARLES  NEWTON  223 


see  the  object  achieved  at  Cambridge,  with  the  certainty 
that  Oxford  must  soon  follow,  was  to  him  like  a view 
from  Pisgah.  His  fine,  worn  and  furrowed,  now  ageing 
face  took  a touching  look  of  relief  and  happiness  as 
he  defined  and  defended  with  a master’s  insight  the 
studies  to  which  he  had  given  his  life,  declaring  as  he 
wound  up,  “ I rejoice  to  have  seen  this  day ; it  is  a 
day  I have  waited  for,  and  prayed  for,  and  toiled  for — 
in  many  lands — and  when  I looked  this  morning  at 
the  cast  of  the  little  figure  of  Proserpine  I myself 
discovered  at  Cnidos,  I was  reminded  of  her  avoho 9 
when  she  came  back  from  the  darkness  of  Hades  into 
the  light  of  the  upper  world,  and  the  thought  came 
to  me  that  this  was  the  avohos  of  archaeology,  so  long 
buried  in  England.” 

There  followed  for  Newton  a time  of  gradually 
declining  strength,  during  which  his  services  having 
tardily  received  the  reward  of  a public  honour,  he 
continued  for  a while  with  usefulness  and  dignity 
his  work  both  as  Keeper  at  the  museum  and  lecturer 
at  the  University  of  London.  The  last  years  before 
his  death  were  spent  in  retirement  and  much  needed 
rest ; not  without  solace  from  the  grateful  affection 
of  us  who  had  known  under  his  guarded  exterior  a 
spirit  the  most  zealous  in  research  and  teaching  and 
a heart  the  best  to  be  trusted  in  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 
(1875) 

There  is  no  place  where  a student  is  more  likely  to 
become  absorbed  in  his  special  study  than  at  Athens. 
But  in  letting  himself  be  so  absorbed,  though  he  makes 
sure  of  gathering  one  kind  of  fruit  from  his  journey, 
he  is  in  danger  of  missing  another  kind.  The  mind  too 
anxiously  bent  upon  improvement  is  apt  to  have  no 
attention  left  for  chance  impressions,  and  it  is  in  the 
distinctness  and  variety  of  chance  impressions  that 
one  half  the  good  of  travelling  lies.  At  home,  among 
familiar  scenes,  to  see  much  in  little  things  is  the 
privilege  either  of  egoism,  whose  slightest  experiences 
are  of  importance  to  itself,  or  of  genius.  The  rest  of 
us  are  less  impressionable,  and  let  the  thousand  small 
circumstances  of  to-day  go  by  us  all  but  unawares. 
But  abroad,  we  all  notice  and  remember  little  things ; 
there  is  a strangeness  in  common  sights,  sounds,  and 
scents,  a vividness  in  our  passing  observations ; and 
we  carry  away,  if  we  are  not  too  dull  or  too  pre- 
occupied, a treasure  that  we  did  not  count  on. 

I have  only  been  a fortnight  in  Athens,  and  in  the 
way  of  work,  a fortnight  could  not  well  yield  results 
worth  mentioning.  Accordingly  of  special  studies 
I am  not  about  to  speak,  only  of  some  general  aspects 

224 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


225 


of  the  place,  and  things  that  strike  one  there  in  by- 
hours. To  any  one  loving  Greek  literature  and  art 
and  tradition,  the  approach,  the  first  sight  of  Athens, 
is  naturally  one  of  the  great  moments  of  life.  And 
few  things  are  better  fitted  to  prepare  and  work  one 
up  for  such  a moment  than  the  voyage,  if  you  choose 
that  route,  from  the  Ionian  islands  by  way  of  the 
isthmus  of  Corinth.  Starting  from  Zante  in  the 
morning,  you  pass  south  of  and  presently  leave  astern 
the  island-mass  of  Cephalonia,  majestic  in  the  noon-day 
haze  ; you  steam  beneath  the  Acarnanian  headlands, 
and  stop  for  a while  under  the  mountain  that  towers, 
crimson  with  sunset,  above  Patras ; at  twilight  you 
enter  between  the  guarded  points  of  Rhion  and  Antir- 
rhion,  and  pass  along  by  night  where  the  snows  of 
Cyllene  on  the  left,  and  Parnassus  on  the  right,  look 
down  on  the  Corinthian  gulf.  These  landlocked  waters 
are  treacherous  and  subject  to  hurricanes.  What 
happened  to  Apollo  and  his  crew  on  their  voyage  to 
Crissa  may  happen  to  any  one,  and  did  to  us.  In 
the  middle  of  the  night,  after  leaving  Patras, 

So  frank  a gale  there  flew  out  of  the  west,* 

that  our  skipper  was  fain  to  bring  his  ship  to  under 
the  lea  of  a cliff,  and  there  she  lay  straining  and  tossing 
at  her  moorings  for  two  hours,  while  the  awakened 
passengers  bemoaned  themselves.  When  we  came 
on  deck  at  dawn,  as  the  boat  neared  the  port  of  Corinth, 
the  sky  was  low  and  grey,  and  the  cold  gale  was  still 

* This  is  Chapman’s  spirited  line  for  the  Homeric, — 
rj\0’  avefxos  Z e(f>vpo<s  fiiyas  \k  A los  alcrijs 
\a/3po<s  iircuyi^tov  aiOepos. 


226 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


driving  the  ripple  strongly  upon  the  beach ; most  of 
us  were  still  staggering  from  sea-sickness,  the  most 
prosaically  abject  of  human  calamities ; the  sense  of 
excitement,  of  enjoyment,  of  expectancy,  was  for  the 
moment  utterly  extinguished.  But  during  the  drive 
across  the  isthmus  to  Kalamaki,  the  port  where  one 
took  steam  again  for  Athens,  the  day  grew  bright, 
the  mountain  distances  revealed  themselves,  the  air 
blew  fresh  and  ringing  instead  of  chill ; the  deadened 
faculties  began  to  waken.  By  the  time  we  were  re- 
embarked, a Homeric  hunger  had  succeeded  to  the 
morning’s  faintness  ; and  this  satisfied,  one  was  ready 
to  take  in  again  the  glory  of  the  world.  It  is  a three- 
hours’  run  down  the  Saronic  gulf  from  Kalamaki 
to  the  Piraeus,  and  all  the  while  your  heart  is  astir 
within  you.  The  sea  which  leaps  from  the  prow,  and 
flashes  under  the  following  gale,  is  not  sea  but  a sapphire 
wine  of  fabulous  colour  and  intensity.  The  mountains, 
with  their  fainter  azure,  are  mountains  of  enchant- 
ment ; far  off  behind  some  of  those  foldings  on  the 
right,  you  know,  lie  ruins  of  old  fame,  Tiryns  and 
Mycenae  and  Cleonae  ; on  the  left,  the  arid  precipices 
of  the  Megarid  descend  in  sunshine  to  the  blue;  in 
front,  the  gulf  is  almost  closed  by  a crowd  of  steep 
and  lovely  coast  and  island  forms  which  you  have  not 
yet  learnt  to  name  or  distinguish.  You  want  to  shout 
schoolboy  quotations  to  yourself ; you  want  to  be 
alone  with  your  emotions,  and  cannot  bear  anything 
which  jars  against  or  checks  them.  Your  fellow- 
passengers  become  odious  to  you.  A Greek  youth, 
unctuous,  familiar,  inquisitive,  accosts  you  for  the 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


227 


twentieth  time  with  an  eye  to  business ; a Glasgow 
tourist  prates  about  the  beauties  of  the  Clyde ; some- 
body offers  you  a cigar  ; you  turn  savagely  from  them 
all,  and  make  your  way  forward,  where  the  deck  is 
strewn  with  third-class  passengers  wrapped  in  their 
sheepskins,  and  picking  your  steps,  clamber  up  beside , 
the  bowsprit,  where  you  can  be  alone.  The  island  of 
iEgina  has  by  this  time  separated  itself  from  the  other 
mountain  groups,  and  lies  in  front  and  to  the  right ; 
on  the  left,  you  cannot  at  all  make  out  the  projections 
and  complications  of  the  coast,  but  you  know  that 
the  conical  peak  the  boat  is  just  rounding  belongs  to 
the  island  of  Salamis,  and  are  in  high  suspense  for 
what  will  come  next.  You  watch  and  watch,  with 
snatches  of  Greek  and  snatches  of  English  poetry 
ringing  in  your  brain — 

\nrapal  /cal  locrre^avoi  /cal  aoi^ifioi — 

The  fruitful  immortal  anointed  adored 
Dear  city  of  men  without  master  or  lord — 

and  presently  you  swallow  something  in  your  throat, 
and  give  a shake  from  head  to  foot,  as  the  immortal 
city  wears  in  sight : that  is  to  say,  there  appears  a 
few  miles  before  you  a place  in  the  coast  where  the 
higher  mountains  break  back  into  a sort  of  amphi- 
theatre, and  you  discern  a little  cluster  of  rocks  stand- 
ing clear  in  front  of  them.  First  you  make  out  but 
one  sharp  crag — that  must  be  Lycabettus ; next  a 
lower  one  disengages  itself,  table-topped  and  with 
buildings  on  it,  and  that  must  be — it  is — the  Acropolis  ; 
those  buildings  are  the  Parthenon,  from  thence  flashed 
of  yore  the  spear  and  helmet  of  Athene.  There  is 


228 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


another  half  hour,  of  which  you  do  not  take  any  pre- 
cise account,  before  the  steamer  comes  to  in  the 
harbour  of  the  Piraeus  and  is  surrounded  by  a shoal 
of  pinnaces  bringing  on  board  the  health-officers  and 
hotel  and  custom-house  agents.  These  Piraeus  boats 
are  painted  white,  with  gunwales  striped  red  and 
yellow ; the  harbour  is  surrounded  with  white  or 
brightly- tin  ted  buildings  ; the  water  quivers  with  clear 
colour  and  reflection  ; a crystalline  and  dancing  bright- 
ness is  in  the  air  ; as  you  are  rowed  to  shore,  and  start 
to  drive  from  the  harbour  to  the  town,  you  are  pene- 
trated with  the  sense  of  unaccustomed  and  radiant 
day. 

This  lightness  and  clearness  of  the  Athenian  atmo- 
sphere, as  it  is  the  thing  which  strikes  you  first 
on  landing,  so  is  it  that  of  which  you  remain  most 
continually  sensible.  Not  the  a afiirporaro ? alOrjp  of 
Euripides,  not  all  that  poets  have  sung  or  travellers 
told,  have  fully  prepared  you  for  the  reality.  When 
day  has  followed  day  in  which  the  world  has  lain 
flooded  with  radiance,  and  on  night  after  night  the 
stars  have  seemed  to  hang  within  reach  almost,  in 
unknown,  nearer,  brighter  multitudes,  till  the  spirit 
has  thoroughly  dilated  itself  in  the  new  medium,  still 
you  find  that  habit  has  not  made  you  insensible  to 
this  magic  quality  of  the  air.  It  is  forced  upon  your 
attention  by  fresh  sights  and  impressions  that  occur 
continually.  The  old  market  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
town  is  a great  place  for  one  kind  of  such  impressions 
which  has  nothing  to  do  with  ancient  Athens  or  with 
your  studies,  but  strikes  vividly  in  upon  your  passive 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


229 


observation.  Market-stalls  and  market  people  in 
counterchange  of  intense  shadow  and  light,  heaps  of 
glowing  oranges,  piles  of  silk  stuffs,  figures  in  the  scarlet 
fez  and  white  or  blue  jacket  and  white  fustanella, 
make  pictures  of  intense  Oriental  colour,  which  you 
are  apt  to  come  upon  suddenly,  framed  in  the  openings 
of  the  houses,  as  you  descend  from  the  Acropolis  by 
one  of  the  many  narrow  lanes  of  that  quarter.  Some- 
times, on  the  other  hand,  one  of  these  sudden  effects 
of  daylight  contains  a whole  revelation  on  the  nature 
of  ancient  art.  When,  in  one  of  the  new  buildings 
upon  which  the  masons  are  at  work  all  over  the  town 
— the  University,  the  Academy,  the  Parliament- 
house,  the  Sculpture  museum — you  chance  to  see  a 
piece  of  fresh-carved  marble  against  the  sky,  it  dazzles 
you  with  its  excessive  glitter  and  whiteness ; you 
understand  at  once  why  statues  of  pure  untinted 
marble  would  not  do  in  this  climate,  and  why  the 
ancient  Greek,  to  make  his  groups  of  outdoor  statues 
tolerable  to  the  eye,  must  needs  have  toned  and 
tinted  them  ; and  how,  further,  it  is  probable  that  his 
marble  surfaces  in  general  were  faced  with  some 
preparation  which  did  for  them  then  that  which  time, 
subduing  the  white  glitter  to  a hundred  rich  diversities 
between  ivory  and  amber,  has  done  for  them  now. 
There  is  another  way  in  which  the  Athenian  daylight 
helps  you  to  understand  ancient  art  for  the  first  time. 
The  moment  you  see  shadows  like  these,  strong,  sharp, 
and  defined  as  by  a needle’s  point,  but  nevertheless 
full,  in  the  shaded  surface,  of  a blue  and  bloomy  light, 
you  have  gained  a new  revelation  as  to  the  powers 


230 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  effects  both  of  sculpture  and  architecture.  In 
the  West  we  know  nothing  of  this  daylight,  which 
at  the  same  time  cuts  out  every  shadow  into  the  sharp- 
est definition  and  force  of  contrast,  and  floods  all  that 
lies  within  the  shadow  with  a soft  and  exquisite  clear- 
ness. Every  projection  is  thrown  into  intense  relief, 
every  play  of  surface  is  expressed  with  the  subtlest 
gradation  ; the  commonest  mason’s  work  looks  striking 
and  beautiful. 

And  if  the  atmosphere  of  Athens  gives  such  special 
effect  and  brilliancy  to  various  features  of  the  modern 
town — to  the  shapes  and  shadows  of  cornice,  capital, 
and  balcony,  or  the  attire  of  market-people  grouped 
about  their  many-coloured  wares,  still  more  does  the 
same  atmosphere  shed  enchantment  upon  the  landscape. 
The  aspect  of  all  mountains  obeys  and  changes  with 
the  sky,  but  none  that  I have  seen  seem  to  owe  so 
much  of  their  glory  to  sky  and  air  as  those  of  Attica. 
Every  one  knows  in  some  degree  what  is  the  configura- 
tion of  that  noble  theatre  in  the  midst  of  which  the 
city  stands.  The  rocks  of  Athens  rise  from  a plain 
which  is  encompassed  on  all  but  the  seaward  side  by 
the  three  ramparts  of  Hymettus,  descending  to  the 
shore  on  the  south-east,  Pentelicus  closing  in  the 
landward  view  north-east,  and  Parnes  north-west ; 
with  the  lower,  nearer  range  of  Aigealos  or  Daphni- 
Vouni,  cleft  in  two  by  the  pass  of  Daphni,  running 
from  Parnes  to  the  sea  beyond  Piraeus  on  the  west,  and 
cutting  off  the  view  of  Eleusis  and  one  half  of  Salamis. 
At  first  you  do  not  think  of  these  hills  as  either  distant 
or  lofty.  The  clearness  with  which  you  can  distinguish 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


231 


every  detail  of  their  appearance  makes  them  seem  near, 
and  the  sense  of  ample  horizon  and  unhemmed  openness 
in  which  you  breathe  makes  you  feel  as  if,  being  near, 
they  could  not  be  high.  Except  on  rare  days  of  cloud, 
or  when  the  scirocco  drives  a dusty  haze  across  the 
world,  you  can  discern  every  fold  and  facet  of  their 
slopes,  you  can  make  out  every  cleft  and  watercourse, 
almost  every  minute  accident  of  colour  and  variety 
of  surface  on  the  rock.  Nevertheless,  it  is  nearly 
two  hours’  walk  to  the  nearest  of  these  ranges — to  the 
first  hollows  about  the  base  of  Hymettus,  or  to  the 
rise  of  Daphni  in  the  opposite  direction.  The  sum- 
mits of  Parnes  are  twenty  miles  away  and  nearly  five 
thousand  feet  high.  In  other  climates,  it  is  only  in 
particular  states  of  the  weather  that  the  remote  seems 
so  close,  and  then  usually  with  an  effect  which  is 
sharp  and  hard  as  well  as  clear.  Here  the  clearness 
is  soft ; nothing  cuts  or  glitters,  seen  through  that 
magic  distance ; the  air  has  not  only  a new  trans- 
parency, so  that  you  can  see  farther  into  it  than 
elsewhere,  but  a new  quality,  like  some  crystal  of  an 
unknown  water,  so  that  to  see  into  is  greater  glory. 

Such  a sky  does  wonders  for  the  land  beneath  it. 
The  heights  are  barren  and  naked,  as  they  always  were, 
and  for  ages  now  the  barrenness  and  nakedness  has 
extended  to  the  hollows  and  to  a great  part  of  the 
plain,  where  the  populous  demes  once  clustered.  Here 
is  nothing  opulent ; here  are  none  of  the  ornaments 
of  our  northern  mountains,  no  green  of  the  meadows  or 
purple  of  the  moors,  nothing  of  what  makes  splendid 
the  headlands  of  Wales  or  Scotland.  These  ranges 


232 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  promontories  of  sterile  limestone  have  another 
distinction.  Ridge  beyond  ridge  they  rear  themselves, 
extend,  sink,  part,  or  close,  in  forms  the  most  admirably 
harmonious.  To  watch  their  mere  outlines  is  a delight 
and  lesson  for  the  eye  ; still  more  to  study  the  model- 
lings of  their  masses  as  they  lie  revealed  in  a thousand 
fine  gradations  of  light  and  pearly  shadow.  To  draw 
them  is  as  difficult  as  to  draw  the  Elgin  marbles ; 
and  in  truth  the  Athenian  sculptor  did  but  carve  his 
goddesses  as  his  mountains  had  been  carven  for  him 
from  of  old  time.  The  colours  of  them  are  as  austere 
and  delicate  as  the  forms.  If  here  the  scar  of  some 
old  quarry  throws  a stain,  or  there  the  clinging  of 
some  thin  leafage  spreads  a bloom,  the  stain  is  of 
gold  and  the  bloom  of  silver.  And  whenever,  in  the 
general  sterility,  you  find  a little  moderate  verdure— 
a little  moist  grass,  a cluster  of  cypresses — or  whenever 
your  eye  lights  upon  the  one  wood  of  the  district,  the 
long  olive-grove  of  the  Cephissus,  you  are  struck  with 
a sudden  sense  of  richness,  and  feel  for  the  moment 
as  though  the  splendours  of  the  tropics  could  be 
nothing  to  this.  So  with  the  flowers ; a few  thin 
tufts  of  asphodel,  the  small  purple  grape-hyacinths, 
the  close-growing  mountain-thyme,  a knoll  sprinkled 
with  red  or  white  anemones,  seem  to  you  wonders, 
and  most  pf  all  the  anemones,  which  flash  upon  you 
as  the  reddest  and  the  whitest  in  the  world.  The  affinity 
of  Greek  nature  with  Greek  art,  its  power  of  producing, 
in  the  same  way,  effects  of  surpassing  richness  with 
means  of  extreme  simplicity  and  severity,  is  the  thing 
which  the  Athenian  landscape  brings  continually  home 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


233 


to  you,  in  details  as  well  as  in  the  general  aspect. 

In  talking  of  the  landscape,  one  is  still  talking  of 
Athens  ; for  the  town  is  not  so  large  that  it  ever  shuts 
you  out  from  the  sense  of  the  country.  It  is  curious 
to  notice  the  different  impressions  one  gets  in  different 
cities  of  the  relation  of  city  and  country.  In  London 
that  relation  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist ; the  town  is 
to  our  consciousness  a world  without  limits,  and  we 
can  hardly  realize  that  even  from  a balloon,  or  in  the 
survey  of  a travelling  bird,  it  would  be  possible  to  see 
all  round  it,  and  take  it  in  as  the  inhabited  centre  of 
an  open  champaign.  From  within,  it  is  but  now  and 
then,  when  some  clear  wind  is  blowing,  in  some  chance 
street,  or  from  some  high  attic  window  opening  north 
or  south,  that  the  heights  of  Hampstead  or  Norwood 
catch  one’s  eye,  and  remind  one,  not  without  surprise, 
of  the  existence  of  a circumjacent  world.  Of  great 
cities,  Vienna,  with  its  double  river,  and  the  mountains 
to  be  seen  from  its  many  open  places,  perhaps  keeps 
the  sense  of  the  circumjacent  most  agreeably  present  to 
one’s  mind.  Florence,  however  much  smaller,  is  quite 
capable,  with  her  narrow  streets  and  beetling  palaces, 
of  making  one  forget  for  awhile  her  encompassing 
Apennines.  The  new  town  of  Athens  is  growing  fast, 
and  already  covers  a great  deal  of  ground,  but  by  no 
means  so  as  to  coop  one  from  the  outer  world ; one 
has  not  yet  to  resent  a loss  of  view  in  consequence  of 
its  growth.  But  one  has  this  to  resent,  that  the  view 
changes,  in  a certain  fashion,  as  the  town  grows.  The 
people  want  stone  for  building,  and  they  get  it  where 
it  can  be  got  most  conveniently — by  blasting  in  the 


234 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


nearest  heights.  The  nearest  height  of  all  is  Lycabettus, 
a conical  peak  which  dominates  the  town  immediately 
behind  the  king’s  palace  ; and  the  shape  of  Lycabettus, 
as  the  Athenian  mariner  of  old  beheld  it  from  the 
gulf,  has  been  really  altered  by  modern  quarrying. 
It  has  been,  I believe,  decided  not  to  quarry  any  more 
on  the  conspicuous,  the  townward  side  of  this  particular 
peak ; but  further  back,  and  on  adjacent  eminences, 
the  work  goes  on  continuously.  Boom,  boom,  one 
hears  all  day,  as  mine  after  mine  is  sprung ; and  the 
fragments  rattle  down,  and  a scar  is  made,  and  those 
forms  are  changed  that  should  stand  fast  for  ever. 
Lycabettus,  and  other  sacred  rocks,  are  hewn,  and 
suffer  transformation,  and  rise  again  as  the  brand-new 
public  building,  the  Panepistemion  and  the  Boule — the 
University  and  the  House  of  Parliament — of  an  Athens 
rejuvenate  and  complacent.  The  German  scholastic 
architects,  who  planned  the  new  town  after  the  War 
of  Liberation,  have  set  an  example  of  style  which  has 
been  followed  in  the  main,  though  none  of  the  subse- 
quent buildings  are  either  so  vast  or  so  pretentious 
as  the  square  barrack  of  a royal  palace.  What  the 
public  buildings  and  great  private  houses  most  remind 
one  of  is  Munich — a Munich  with  an  added  touch  of 
the  Oriental  in  the  flat  roofs  and  closed  jalousies, 
and  with  the  advantage  of  better  materials.  For  the 
ornamental  parts,  Pentelicus  is  at  hand  with  its  marble 
of  incomparable  quality,  and  the  native  masons  seem 
to  have  an  hereditary  art  in  fitting  and  working  it. 
The  stuccoes  used  for  facing  most  of  the  wall-surfaces 
are  of  pleasant  tints,  and  so,  particularly,  are  the  tiles 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


235 


of  the  roofs  ; so  that  when  one  looks  down  over  the 
town  from  some  eminence  its  colour  suits  the  scene. 
And  when  one  walks  along  the  great  new  thoroughfare, 
planted  in  boulevard  fashion  with  pepper-trees,  the 
modern  Athens  seems  a place  not  unstately  nor  un- 
refined— until,  perhaps,  a cloud  of  hard  white  dust 
comes  drifting  with  the  wind,  and  your  eyes  smart, 
and  your  temper  changes ; and  then  you  may  quickly 
fall  into  that  other  mood,  which  often  one  cannot 
resist,  and  may  hate  this  prosperity  and  despise  this 
civilization,  and  wish  that,  in  this  place  at  least,  there 
were  no  present  to  thrust  itself  between  you  and  the 
past,  and  feel  as  if,  about  the  foot  of  the  Acropolis, 
solitude  and  hyenas  would  be  better  than  this  crowd, 
superlatively  and  offensively  modern,  for  so  it  somehow 
strikes  you,  which  struts  or  saunters  before  the  plate- 
glass  windows. 

Quick-witted  and  hospitable  people  ! it  ill  becomes 
one  who  has  shared  your  kindness,  and  hopes  to  share 
it  again,  to  feel  like  this.  And  reason  and  humanity, 
as  well  as  gratitude,  aver  that  you  have  a right  to 
build  your  new  city — a Munich,  yes,  a Paris  of  your 
own,  between  the  Acropolis  and  the  groves  of  Academe 
— and  to  be  busy  with  your  parliamentary  politics, 
and  more  taken  up  with  to-day  and  its  passions  than 
with  the  past  and  its  memories.  But  that  which 
reason  bids  us  remember  we  all  the  same  forget,  and 
continually  fall  into  indignation,  into  petulance,  against 
this  population  and  its  ways.  The  sight  of  neo-Greek 
words  over  the  shop-doors,  the  sound  of  a neo-Greek 
speech  the  sense  of  which  our  self-willed,  insular  way 


236 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


of  pronunciation  has  not  taught  us  to  catch,  the  tavern 
sign  of  the  Nine  Muses,  the  shopkeepers  who  write  up 
their  names  Solon  and  Epaminondas  and  Alcibiades, 
the  small  boy  who  cries  the  comic  paper  c Aristophanes  ’ 
with  a true  twang  of  the  railway  platform — all  these 
things  seem  to  us,  at  such  moments,  part  of  a conceited 
and  intolerable  travesty  of  greatness.  It  cannot  but 
be  so ; no  living  present  with  its  trivialities  could 
well  seem  to  us  other  than  the  ape  and  desecrator 
of  that  past  which  has  left  us  almost  nothing  trivial, 
almost  nothing  not  ideal.  We  cannot,  try  as  we  may, 
we  cannot  really,  familiarly,  call  up  to  our  mind’s 
eye  the  ancient  Greek  as  he  lived,  laboured,  bartered, 
laughed,  quarrelled,  and  died ; the  accidents  of 
history  have  conspired  with  the  national  genius  to 
purge  away  from  his  visible  record  all  marks  of 
commonness  or  vulgarity.  We  go  to  that  street,  laid 
bare  by  the  spade  in  recent  years,  by  which  the  pro- 
cession used  to  set  out  to  Eleusis,  and  where  there 
are  on  each  side  the  funeral  monuments  of  dead  Athen- 
ians ; and  we  ask  ourselves,  what  was  the  real  character, 
what  the  gestures,  fashions,  comings  and  goings,  of 
that  domestic  life  which  is  commemorated  in  the 
carvings  of  these  tombs  with  such  complete  apparent 
naturalness,  yet  with  such  serene  and  inviolate 
decorum  ? A mother  sits  in  her  chair,  and  stoops  to 
kiss  her  departing  child  and  pat  its  elbow.  A man 
in  ripe  years,  half  turning  to  go,  grasps  the  hand  of 
his  seated  wife ; another  speaks  to  his  dog,  who  leaps 
up  to  crave  for  notice,  as  he  goes  out  as  if  for  the 
usual  day’s  labour.  Again,  a man  and  wife  grasp 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


237 


hands,  while  friends  behind  the  chair  look  on  sorrow- 
fully. Hegeso  the  daughter  of  Proxenos,  so  named 
in  the  inscription  on  her  tomb,  sits  placidly,  while 
her  maid  brings  her  in  a dressing-casket  some  piece 
of  attire  such  as  a lady  might  wear  when  she  walked 
abroad.  Thus  much  of  his  real  life  the  Greek  will  show 
us,  but  denuded  of  all  flutter  and  circumstance ; he 
will  carve,  with  many  grave  and  sweet  variations,  the 
household  good-byes  of  every  day,  in  order  to  carry 
our  thoughts,  not  to  every  day,  but  to  that  one  day 
when  those  who  say  good-bye  know  that  there  will  be 
no  return  at  evening.  Images  decorous,  indeed,  and 
serene,  but  none  the  less  moving ; for  in  these  simple 
scenes  of  farewell  and  departure  there  lurks  a tender- 
ness so  poignant  that  one’s  heart  is  tightened  and 
the  tears  come  into  one’s  eyes  as  one  looks  at  them. 
Thus  to  express,  in  the  familiar,  everything  but  its 
familiarity — with  so  simple  a spectacle  thus  to  move 
and  solemnize  us — to  show  us  nothing  but  the  usual, 
and  at  the  same  time  lift  and  chasten  us  from  usual 
thoughts — what  words  can  estimate,  what  musings 
fathom,  that  art  of  arts  ? 

And  should  one  be  blamed  for  being  impatient,  if, 
when  one  is  absorbed  in  this  mystery  of  the  Hellenic 
genius,  shouts  or  chatter  interrupt  one’s  musings,  and 
boys  come  rioting  and  pelting  each  other  among  the 
tombs,  or  trivial-seeming  sons  and  daughters  of 
contemporary  Hellas  pass  gossipingly  ? There  is  at 
least  one  place  where  one  can  be  nearly  sure  of  escaping 
the  importunities  of  the  present,  and  realizing,  as  the 
religious  seek  to  realize,  that  absorption  which  life 


238 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  traffic  elsewhere  interrupt ; that  is  the  peak  of 
Lycabettus,  just  above  the  town.  I used  to  sit  every 
morning  under  a rock  near  the  top  of  Lycabettus,  and 
let  the  view  engrave  itself  by  repetition  upon  my 
senses.  You  look  down  over  Athens,  down  over 
the  Acropolis  dominating  Athens,  and  thence  over  a 
space  of  basking  plain  to  the  gulf,  and  beyond  the  gulf, 
to  the  long  faint-blue  barrier,  many-peaked,  of  the 
Argive  mountains.  The  hither  shore-line  of  the  gulf, 
about  five  miles  away,  stretches  all  across  the  view, 
with  moderate  indentures  and  promontories  on  the 
side  nearest  Salamis  and  the  spires  of  Aigealos  (and 
on  this  side  are  the  white  buildings  of  the  Pirseus 
clustering  at  the  sea’s  edge),  and  with  a more  even 
sweep  in  the  direction  of  Hymettus  on  the  left.  To- 
wards the  centre  is  one  chief  indenture,  the  Bay  of 
Phalerum ; of  this  the  curve  just  coincides,  in  the 
view,  with  the  table  line  of  the  Acropolis,  so  as  to 
detach  the  Parthenon  against  a background  of  sea. 
Solitary  stands  that  pillared  stateliness,  glittering  white 
against  the  profound  ^Egean  blue.  Nearly  straight 
over  the  Acropolis,  the  island  of  .ZEgina,  softened 
and  darkened  with  distance,  lifts  a lovely  mountain 
outline,  and  dimly  behind  iEgina  another  island,  Poros, 
heaves  a grand  shoulder  that  we  can  but  half  distin- 
guish from  the  many-folded  ranges  of  the  Argive 
mainland.  The  gulf,  where  it  widens  towards  the 
open  Mediterranean,  lies  misty  under  the  morning 
sun,  and  passes  thence  through  a long  gradation 
from  east  to  west  into  a blueness  which  is  blackness 
almost,  so  profound,  so  intense  is  the  colour,  where 


ON  SOME  ASPECTS  OF  ATHENS 


239 


its  last  inlets  lie  branching  beneath  the  sunlit  preci- 
pices of  Salamis.  Salamis,  an  island  of  many  barren 
peaks,  is  flooded  with  sunlight  on  all  its  southern  and 
eastern  slopes.  Beyond  it  stretch  again  the  masses 
of  the  Peloponnesian  mountains,  and  farthest  of  all 
one  crest  of  pure  and  gleaming  snow,  the  crest  of 
Arcadian  Cyllene. 

All  of  the  living  and  the  present  which  reaches  you 
here  is  the  sound  sent  up  from  below.  The  sounds, 
the  cries  of  Athens,  are  discordant  enough  when  you 
are  among  them,  and  are  not  limited  to  the  town. 
Donkeys  are  much  used  in  Attic  husbandry,  and  the 
Attic  donkey  is  notorious  for  braying  incessantly. 
But  the  cries  of  the  market  and  the  news-vendors, 
the  braying  of  donkeys  about  the  farms,  the  calling 
of  cavalry  bugles,  and  one  high  clear  note  most  con- 
tinuous of  all,  the  ring  of  the  masons’  hammers  upon 
the  marble  they  are  fashioning — all  these  sounds, 
through  that  magic  air,  ascend  to  you  fused  and 
musically  softened,  and  make  no  jarring  or  inhar- 
monious accompaniment  to  your  most  rapt  reflections. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


It  was  in  Newton’s  company,  in  the  month  of  Febru- 
ary, 1881,  that  I had  my  only  meeting  with  this  remark- 
able survivor  of  the  great  days  and  great  men  of  the 
opening  century.  To  us  of  a later  generation,  or 
rather  of  several  successive  generations,  Trelawny  had 
become  a personage  legendary  while  he  yet  lived.  We 
all  knew  thus  much  about  him,  that  being  the  younger 
son  of  an  old  Cornish  stock,  endowed  by  nature  with 
an  ungovernable  spirit  and  extraordinary  bodily 
strength  and  hardihood,  he  had  in  boyhood  been  first 
expelled  from  school  and  then,  at  about  twenty,  a 
runaway  from  the  King’s  Navy : next  for  a year  or 
two  a comrade  and  leader  of  privateers,  scarcely  to  be 
distinguished  from  pirates,  in  the  Eastern  seas  (though 
this  phase  of  his  career  may  perhaps  be  partly  mythical) ; 
and  next,  for  a few  more  years,  to  quote  his  own  words, 
“ a shackled,  care-worn  and  spirit-broken  man  of  the 
civilized  West.”  That  next  had  come  the  chance,  so 
happy  for  his  life  and  fame,  which  made  him  first  the 
associate  of  Shelley  and  Byron  in  Tuscany,  and  of 
Shelley  in  especial  the  ardent  admirer  and  friend — 
the  man  who  last  spoke  to  the  poet  in  life  and  who 
snatched  his  heart  out  of  the  pyre  which  consumed 

24Q 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


241 


his  remains — and  then,  when  Shelley  was  gone,  the 
companion  of  Byron  on  his  expedition  in  aid  of  Greek 
liberty.  Both  before  and  after  Byron’s  death,  Tre- 
lawny  was  the  trusted  lieutenant  of  the  famous  Greek 
chieftain  Odysseus,  a partisan  at  war  equally  with 
the  Turk  and  with  the  provisional  native  Government 
at  Athens,  and  was  made  the  victim  of  an  attempted 
assassination  while  left  in  charge  of  that  chieftain’s 
treasure  in  his  cavern  fortress  on  Mount  Olympus. 
After  his  recovery  and  a few  years  spent  in  the  Ionian 
Islands,  the  next  phase  of  his  life  was  that  of  a man  of 
leisure  and  letters  at  Florence,  the  most  confidential 
friend  of  Shelley’s  widow ; bent  for  a while  himself 
upon  writing  Shelley’s  life,  and  when  he  was  foiled  in 
that  hope,  turning  to  weave  the  story  of  his  own  wild 
early  days  into  a thrilling,  inextricable,  ultra-romantic 
blend  of  fact  and  fiction  in  his  book  The  Adventures  of  a 
Younger  Son.  He  reappears  next  as  once  more  a 
traveller  performing  feats  of  strength  and  endurance 
in  the  wilder  regions  of  America  both  North  and  South 
— feats  unrecorded  or  vaguely  recorded  except  that 
one  feat  of  swimming  across  the  rapids  below  Niagara, 
which  he  has  himself  described  in  what  in  his  own 
energetic,  untutored  way  of  writing  is  perhaps  his 
masterpiece.  For  some  seasons  thereafter  he  played 
his  part  as  a conspicuous  member  of  London  society, 
made  much  of  by  fashionable  folk  in  spite- — or  perhaps 
because — of  his  scorn  of  social  rules  and  conventions. 
Then  for  another  period  he  lived  in  the  London 
suburbs  as  something  of  a recluse  and  in  South  Wales 
as  a country  gentleman  and  hardworking  practical 


242 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


farmer  and  gardener,  but  never  for  very  long  without 
some  scandal  attending  his  name,  for  of  all  laws  the 
marriage  laws  were  those  he  respected  least.  Then 
he  became  for  a second  time  an  author,  recounting  his 
relations  with  Shelley  and  Byron  and  his  experiences 
,in  Greece  with  a remarkable  gift  both  of  human 
presentment  and  of  narrative  : and  thereafter  lived  on 
and  on,  for  the  most  part  in  retirement  in  the  country, 
until  of  his  own  memorable  age  he  had  become  almost 
the  last  survivor,  and  an  object  of  curiosity  and  pil- 
grimage to  successions  of  younger  men  and  women 
seeking  in  their  minds  or  writings  to  reconstruct 
it. 

Naturally  I had  always  had  the  wish  to  see  this 
veteran,  and  at  the  date  I have  mentioned  the  oppor- 
tunity came.  Newton  and  I were  the  guests  for  a 
winter  week-end  of  our  friends  Captain  and  Lady 
Alice  Gaisford  in  their  Sussex  home,  distant  about  a 
mile  from  the  cottage  in  the  village  of  Sompting  where 
Trelawny  had  then  long  been  living.  Our  host,  a 
brother  Dilettante  of  Newton’s  and  mine,  was  a son 
of  the  once  famous  Greek  scholar  and  dean  of  Christ 
Church,  Thomas  Gaisford,  and  was  himself  a fine  type 
of  handsome,  chivalrous,  cultivated  English  gentleman. 
He  was  on  terms  of  friendly  regard  and  intercourse — 
under  some  degree  of  protest,  if  I remember  aright, 
from  Lady  Alice — with  the  old  rebel  his  neighbour,  and 
by  previous  arrangement  walked  over  with  us  and 
introduced  us.  The  house  where  Trelawny  lived  was 
a large  cottage  painted  red  and  set  back  a little  way  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  road,  not  far  from  the  entrance 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


243 


to  the  village.  The  veteran  received  us  in  a small, 
old-fashioned  room  on  the  ground  floor,  where  he  sat 
in  an  arm-chair  with  a couple  of  black-and-tan  terriers 
playing  about  his  feet.  I had  been  accustomed  to 
hear  much  of  his  extraordinary  vigour.  He  had 
always  been  of  abstemious  habits,  and  although  past 
eighty-eight,  and  a water-drinker,  and  although  he  had 
still  inside  him  one  of  the  two  bullets  which  had  been 
lodged  there  by  the  assassin  Fenton  during  the  Greek 
war  of  liberation,  he  was  nevertheless,  it  was  said,  so 
strong  that  he  had  only  lately  given  up  the  habit  of 
bathing  in  the  sea  in  all  seasons,  and  of  warming  him- 
self on  the  coldest  mornings,  not  at  the  fire,  which 
he  refused  to  have  lighted  before  noon,  but  by  the 
exercise  of  chopping  wood.  I was  therefore  somewhat 
surprised  to  perceive  in  him  at  first  sight  all  the  appear- 
ances of  decrepitude.  He  scarcely  moved  himself  in 
his  chair  on  our  entrance,  but  sat  in  a shrunken  atti- 
tude, with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  speaking  little,  and 
as  if  he  could  only  fix  his  attention  by  an  effort.  He 
wore  an  embroidered  red  cap,  of  the  unbecoming  shape 
in  use  in  Byron’s  day,  with  a stiff  projecting  peak. 
His  head  thus  appeared  to  no  advantage  ; nevertheless 
in  the  ashen  colour  of  the  face,  the  rough  grey  hair  and 
beard  and  firmly  modelled  mouth  set  slightly  awry, 
in  the  hard,  clear,  handsome  aquiline  profile  (for  the 
nose,  though  not  long,  was  of  marked  aquiline  shape), 
and  in  the  masterful,  scowling  grey  eye,  there  were 
traces  of  something  both  more  distinguished  and 
more  formidable  than  is  seen  in  Sir  John  Millais’s 
well-known  likeness  of  him  as  an  old  seaman  in  his 


244 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


picture  “ The  North-West  Passage  ” — a likeness  with 
which  the  sitter  himself  was  much  dissatisfied. 

The  talk  ran  at  first  on  commonplace  matters  and 
mutual  acquaintances.  In  its  course  the  downright 
old  man  denounced  as  44  lies  ” the  ordinary  formulas 
of  social  politeness  and  solicitude.  His  voice  was  at 
first  weak  and  muffled  ; at  the  same  time  his  scorn 
of  conventions  seemed  to  declare  itself  in  a certain 
bluntness  and  bluffness  of  utterance,  and  in  tricks  of 
pronunciation  such  as  saying 44  strenth  ” for 44  strength” 
and  sounding 44  put  ” with  the  vowel  short  as  in  44  shut.” 
Was  this  ruggedness  of  speech  and  manner,  I could 
not  help  asking  myself,  quite  genuine  and  natural  in  a 
gentleman  born,  who,  rough  as  had  been  his  early 
experiences,  had  nevertheless  lived  familiarly  among 
equals  whenever  he  chose  ; or  had  it  been  at  first 
wilfully  adopted  and  become  by  degrees  a second 
nature  ? By  and  by  he  began  to  rouse  himself,  and 
then  his  conversation  became,  at  least  at  intervals, 
curiously  impressive.  His  moral  and  social  reckless- 
ness, his  defiance  of  current  opinions,  his  turbulent 
energy,  his  sure  eye  for  character  and  his  no  less  sure 
instinct  for  literature,  all  made  themselves  felt,  along 
with  the  extraordinary  interest  of  his  experiences. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  rise,  almost  bound,  up  in 
his  chair,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  yours  like  a vice, 
and  in  tones  of  incredible  power  would  roar  what  he 
had  to  say  into  your  face.  I never  heard  in  human 
conversation  a voice  so  energetic  as  that  which  burst 
from  the  old  man  in  these  explosions ; explosions 
which  subsided  quickly,  and  in  the  intervals  of  which 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


245 


his  accents  were  quiet  and  muffled  as  before.  When 
the  personal  preliminaries  were  over  we  talked  of 
current  politics.  It  was  the  hour  when  the  long 
negotiations  between  the  British  generals  and  adminis- 
trators and  the  Boer  leaders  had  failed,  and  the  opera- 
tions of  the  Transvaal  war  (of  1881)  were  in  full  swing. 
Trelawny  defiantly  declared  his  hope  that  the  English 
would  be  beaten.  “ If  I were  a younger  man,”  he 
shouted  in  a strong  crescendo , “ I would  go  and  fight 
for  the  Boers — fight  for  the  Boers — fight  for  the  Boers.” 
There  was  seeming  imminent  at  the  same  hour 
another  war  nearer  home,  though  not  touching  us  so 
deeply.  Greece  had  been  pressing  for  the  fulfilment 
by  Turkey  of  those  clauses  of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin 
which  handed  over  to  her  the  provinces  of  Thessaly 
and  Epirus.  Turkish  diplomacy  had  resisted  by  all 
the  devices  of  obstinacy  and  cunning  known  to  it ; 
and  the  great  Powers,  each  afraid  of  throwing  Turkey 
into  the  arms  of  the  other,  had  failed  to  insist,  and 
striven,  so  far  vainly,  to  effect  a settlement  by  com- 
promise. Greece  was  preparing  for  war — and  if  war 
broke  out,  which  side  of  the  two,  one  of  us  asked,  did 
Trelawny  think  would  win.  Who  could  tell  ? he 
asked  ; the  Greeks  had  never,  for  two  thousand  years, 
faced  an  enemy  in  the  open  field.  All  their  successes 
in  the  war  of  liberation  had  been  won  in  guerilla 
fighting : the  Turkish  squadrons  used  to  march  in 
column  along  the  plains,  when  the  Greek  sharpshooters 
would  line  the  hills  and  harass  or  destroy  them  without 
exposing  themselves.  I had  lately  been  re-reading 
Trelawny ’s  Records  of  Shelley,  Byron,  etc.,  and  this 


246 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


answer  reminded  me  of  one  of  its  most  striking  pas- 
sages, and  showed  me  how  entirely  the  old  man  was 
thinking  in  the  light  of  his  own  experiences  during  the 
war  of  liberation  some  fifty-five  years  earlier.  Here  is 
the  passage  in  question  : — 

On  our  way  to  Corinth,  we  passed  through  the  defiles  of  Der- 
venakia  ; our  road  was  a mere  mule-path  for  about  two  leagues* 
winding  along  in  the  bed  of  a brook,  flanked  by  rugged  precipices. 
In  this  gorge,  and  a more  rugged  path  above  it,  a large  Ottoman 
force,  principally  cavalry,  had  been  stopped,  in  the  previous  autumn, 
by  barricades  of  rocks  and  trees,  and  slaughtered  like  droves  of 
cattle  by  the  wild  and  exasperated  Greeks.  It  was  a perfect 
picture  of  the  war,  and  told  its  own  story  ; the  sagacity  of  the 
nimble-footed  Greeks,  and  the  hopeless  stupidity  of  the  Turkish 
commanders,  were  palpable  : detached  from  the  heaps  of  dead, 
we  saw  the  skeletons  of  some  bold  riders  who  had  attempted  to 
scale  the  acclivities,  still  astride  the  skeletons  of  their  horses,  and 
in  the  rear,  as  if  in  the  attempt  to  back  out  of  the  fray,  the  bleached 
bones  of  the  negroes’  hands  still  holding  the  hair  ropes  attached 
to  the  skulls  of  their  camels — death  like  sleep  is  a strange  posture- 
master.  There  were  grouped  in  a narrow  space  five  thousand  or 
more  skeletons  of  men,  horses,  camels,  and  mules  ; vultures  had 
eaten  their  flesh,  and  the  sun  had  bleached  their  bones. 

Continuing  on  the  same  subject,  one  of  us  asked, 
would  not  Mr.  Trelawny  like  to  go  and  fight  for  Greece 
now,  as  he  had  fought  for  her  before  ? No,  if  after 
leaving  Greece  he  had  ever  gone  back  there  again  he 
would  without  doubt  have  been  assassinated.  Why  ? 
For  the  sake  of  plunder ; because  he,  and  he  alone, 
knew  the  caves  and  hiding-places  where  the  chief 
Odysseus  had  deposited  his  treasure.  Here  again  the 
veteran  was  evidently  thinking  in  terms  of  his  bygone 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


247 


experience.  It  was  by  the  fabulous  accounts  of  the 
wealth  accumulated  by  Odysseus  in  his  cavern  on 
Mount  Olympus  that  the  Scotsman  Fenton  and  his 
accomplice  Whitcombe  had  been  lured  to  their  act  of 
treachery.  But  granting  that  those  hoards  still  re- 
mained untouched,  and  that  Trelawny  was  the  only 
man  knowing  the  secret  of  their  hiding-place,  in  what 
way  an  assassin  in  later  times  could  possibly  have 
profited  by  his  death  was  not  apparent ; neither  did 
we  press  the  point.  Speaking  of  the  actual  attempt 
made  on  his  life  in  1825,  Trelawny  described  how  his 
Hungarian  servant,  standing  on  guard  at  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  confronted  and  shot  the  would-be  assassin 
Fenton,  who  was  attempting  to  escape  from  within 
it  under  the  pretext  that  what  had  just  happened 
there  was  a dreadful  accident.  One  of  us,  referring 
to  the  shot  with  which  Fenton  wounded  Trelawny, 
not  to  that  with  which  the  Hungarian  servant  killed 
Fenton,  asked  if  it  had  not  been  in  the  back,  which 
as  a matter  of  fact  it  was ; whereupon  Trelawny, 
misunderstanding  the  question  and  still  thinking  of 
the  action  of  the  Hungarian,  rose  with  a shout  and 
a flash  and  called  out,  “ No,  in  the  face,  in  the 
face.” 

Passing  to  the  circumstances  of  Shelley’s  death  in 
1822,  Trelawny,  after  showing  us  the  scar  where  he  had 
burned  his  hand  in  plucking  the  poet’s  heart  out  of 
the  ashes,  detailed  at  length  his  reasons  for  believing 
that  the  sinking  of  Shelley’s  boat  the  44  Don  Juan  ” (re- 
christened the  44  Ariel”),  in  the  squall  after  she  had  left 
Leghorn  Harbour,  was  due  to  foul  play.  He  repeated 


248 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


without  variation  the  account  of  the  matter  given  in 
his  published  volume  of  Records , dwelling  particularly 
on  the  circumstance  that  he  had  been  himself  pre- 
vented from  putting  out  in  company  with  his  friends 
in  Byron’s  schooner  “ The  Bolivar  ” by  warnings  of  the 
quarantine  to  which  he  would  thereby  make  himself 
liable,  addressed  to  him  from  the  pier  by  men  affecting 
to  be  custom-house  officers  but  who  turned  out  not  to 
be  custom-house  officers  after  all.  And  he  insisted  on 
the  fact  that  when  the  wreck  of  the  “ Ariel  ” was  brought 
to  the  surface  her  bows  were  found  to  be  stoven  in. 
This  belief  that  the  4 6 Ariel”  had  not  gone  down  by 
accident  in  the  squall  but  been  deliberately  run  down, 
was  one  which  had  by  degrees  gained  complete  posses- 
sion of  Trelawny’s  mind,  but  is  not  shared  by  those 
who  have  inquired  most  carefully  into  the  evidences. 

Being  then,  as  always,  especially  interested  in  all 
that  concerns  either  Keats  or  Landor,  I tried  to  lead 
the  old  man’s  thoughts  toward  the  days  (about  1828-30) 
when  he  was  living  at  Florence  in  the  intimacy  both 
of  Keats’s  friend  Charles  Brown  and  of  Landor  him- 
self. Knowing  that  it  was  by  a hint  of  Trelawny’s  that 
Brown  had  been  induced  to  adopt  a second  Christian 
name,  Armitage,  so  that  he  might  be  better  distin- 
guished from  the  general  tribe  of  Browns,  and  that  on 
the  other  hand  it  was  by  Brown’s  suggestion  and  per- 
mission that  Trelawny  had  prefixed  to  many  of  the 
chapters  of  his  Adventures  of  a Younger  Son  mottoes 
from  Keats’s  poetry  both  published  and  unpublished, 
I had  hoped  to  get  from  the  old  man  a more  living 
image  of  Brown’s  person  and  character  than  I had  yet 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


249 


been  able  to  form.*  I was  very  desirous  also  to  hear 
what  Trelawny  might  have  to  say  of  that  other  stiff- 
backed  and  strong-lunged  type  of  haughty  British 
independence  and  self-will,  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
his  senior  by  some  two  and  twenty  years.  The  two 
had  been  actually  living  together  at  Florence,  I knew, 
at  the  time  when  Landor  had  made  of  Trelawny’s 
adventures  during  the  Greek  War  of  Independence  the 
subject  of  one  of  the  most  highly  wrought  of  his 
Imaginary  Conversations.  The  scene  is  laid  in  the  forti- 
fied cavern  of  the  chief  Odysseus  on  Mount  Parnassus, 
and  the  persons  of  the  dialogue,  besides  the  rebel  chief 
himself,  are  his  mother  Acrive,  his  young  daughter 
Tersitza,  and  Trelawny.  In  the  course  of  the  adven- 
ture in  the  cavern  Trelawny  had  married  this  girl 
Tersitza,  then  barely  past  childhood,  and  had  brought 
her  with  him  when  he  left  Greece  to  settle  for  a while  in 
Italy.  Subsequently,  as  was  his  way  with  wives  real 
or  nominal,  he  cast  her  off,  sending  her  back  to  her 
own  country,  but  keeping  with  him  the  daughter  of 
their  union,  Zella,  who  grew  up  under  his  care  to 
womanhood  and  married  comfortably.  The  references 
to  this  daughter  in  Trelawny’s  posthumously  published 
letters  do  him,  it  should  be  said,  nothing  but  credit,  f 

* The  best  and  liveliest  material  at  present  extant  is  to  be  found 
in  the  memoir  prefixed  by  the  late  Sir  Charles  Dilke  to  the  collected 
papers  of  his  grandfather  (Papers  of  a Critic , vol.  i,  pp.  3-17). 

f See  Letters  of  Edward  John  Trelawny , ed.  H.  Buxton  Forman, 
C.B.,  Oxford  University  Press,  1910.  These  letters  prove,  had 
proof  been  needed,  how  absolutely  groundless  is  the  horrid  slander 
concerning  his  dealings  in  this  matter  to  which  publicity  was  given 
in  W.  W.  Sharp’s  Life  of  Severn , pp.  264-5. 


250 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Tersitza  herself  also  married  again  some  years  after 
Trelawny  had  discarded  her.  Whether  she  had  been 
still  living  with  him  in  Italy  at  the  date  when  Landor 
wrote  the  Conversation  in  which  the  two  bear  part  I 
did  not,  and  do  not,  know,  and  should  much  have  liked 
to  learn.  At  any  rate  Landor,  knowing  his  Trelawny 
intimately  and  writing  soon  after  the  events,  has  chosen 
to  invest  their  loves  with  a character  exquisitely 
ingenuous  and  idyllically  ideal,  making  of  Trelawny  as 
lover  a personage  possibly  true  to  the  life,  but  totally 
unlike  anything  one  had  otherwise  ever  heard  or  con- 
ceived of  him.* 

But  my  fishing  for  talk  from  the  old  man  either  as 
to  Charles  Brown  or  as  to  Landor  was  vain.  Of  Brown 
he  had  nothing  to  say ; and  concerning  Landor — 
“ a remarkable  man,  a remarkable  man,”  he  repeated 
several  times,  but  would  not  be  drawn  into  further 
comment  except  in  regard  to  the  mistake  Landor  had 
made  in  overrating  Southey.  Some  general  remarks  on 
poets  and  poetry  ensuing,  Trelawny  declared  his  great 
admiration  for  William  Blake,  whose  work,  unread 
and  ignored  among  the  associates  of  his  youth,  had 
only  in  later  years  become  known  to  him  through  the 
publication  of  Gilchrist’s  Life  and  Rossetti’s  reprints. 
He  proceeded  to  recite  standing,  with  the  full  force  of 
his  tremendous  voice,  some  stanzas  of  Blake’s  poem 
“ London  ” from  the  Songs  of  Experience  : — 

* The  reader  who  thinks  of  turning  to  this  dialogue  for  himself 
should  perhaps  be  warned  that  the  charming  part  of  it  is  only  in 
a few  pages  at  the  begirt  nirg,  -a  hi  e the  rest  discusses  the  Greek 
politics  of  the  hour  in  a strain  superlatively  tedious. 


EDWARD  JOHN  TRELAWNY 


251 


In  every  cry  of  every  man, 

In  every  infant’s  cry  of  fear, 

In  every  voice,  in  every  ban, 

The  mind-forged  manacles  I hear, — 

and  so  forth. 

By  this  time  we  had  sat  with  our  entertainer  a long 
while  ; and  I could  see  by  the  impatient  demeanour 
of  the  two  terriers  that  we  had  outstayed  the  hour 
at  which  they  expected  their  master  to  take  them  out 
walking.  When  we  rose  to  go  he  accompanied  us  into 
the  hall.  Newton,  in  shaking  hands,  congratulated 
him  on  looking  so  very  well  considering  his  age,  and  then 
turned  to  put  on  his  coat : whereupon  I could  hear 
the  old  man,  standing  behind  him,  and  conscious  no 
doubt  of  his  own  fast  declining  health,  growl  to  him- 
self “ ’S’ very  well,  s’very  well 5 : that’s  the  kind  o’  lies 
I was  talking  of : lies,  lies,  lies.”  His  last  words  to 
us  were  nevertheless  kindly.  It  did  not  need  the  notes, 
which  on  this  single  exceptional  occasion  I took  at 
the  time,  to  keep  vivid  in  my  mind  the  image  of  this 
hard-bitten,  keen-visaged,  bull-voiced,  rich-memoried 
veteran  as  he  stood  grumbling,  but  not  unfriendly,  on 
his  door-step.  To  have  shaken  the  hand  which 
plucked  Shelley’s  heart  out  of  the  ashes  was  an 
experience  one  was  not  likely  to  forget.  Scarcely  more 
than  six  months  later  he  died,  and  his  remains  were 
removed  to  Rome  to  be  buried  in  the  grave  he  had  long 
ago  secured  for  himself  beside  Shelley’s.  In  like  manner 
Joseph  Severn,  dying  at  Rome  some  thirteen  months 
before,  had  after  an  interval  of  all  but  sixty  years 
been  laid  to  rest  beside  his  own  poet-friend,  Keats: 


252 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  with  the  deaths  of  these  two,  Trelawny  and  Severn, 
the  great  romantic  age  seemed  to  many  of  us  to  have 
receded  out  of  living  touch  and  reach  into  a past  newly 
intangible  and  remote. 


CHAPTER  XV 

VICTOR  HUGO 

With  this  chief  poet  and  romance- writer  of  his  nation 
and  generation,  this  world-famous  great  master  of 
the  sublime  and  tender  and  (for  the  word  must  out) 
of  the  preposterous,  it  was  my  privilege  to  come  into 
personal  touch  soon  after  the  calamities  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war  of  1870-1  and  the  poet’s  return  from 
exile.  I used  to  be  often  in  Paris  in  those  days,  and 
among  my  friends  there  the  most  intimate  was  Philippe 
Burty,  a fine  and  subtle  master  in  the  same  craft  of  art- 
criticism  as  I was  trying  to  ply  at  home.  Burty 
ought  to  hold  a permanent  place  in  the  history  of  that 
craft,  if  only  as  one  of  those  who,  in  alliance  with  the 
great  financier-collector  Cernuschi,  first  brought  the 
love  and  understanding  of  Japanese  art,  in  all  its  forms, 
into  fashion  among  Parisian  amateurs  and  thence  by 
degrees  among  the  general  public.  He  was  a man  of 
exquisite  perceptions  and  sensibilities,  with  a purring 
and  coaxing  softness  of  manner  under  which  lay  much 
genuine  affectionateness  as  well  as  an  enthusiastic 
and  discriminating  love  of  art : and  not  only  these 
but  a staunch  courage,  proved  throughout  the  horrors 
of  the  siege  and  the  fierce  political  struggles  which 
followed  them.  In  the  days  of  the  re-actionary 

253 


254 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Bordeaux  Assembly  and  the  republique  militante  he  was 
a warm  adherent,  unshaken  by  the  ghastly  interlude 
of  the  Commune,  of  the  liberal  causes  and  of  their 
leaders,  and  was  held  in  equal  regard  by  the  poet-seer 
Hugo  and  the  great  parliamentary  champion  Gam- 
betta.  Hence  his  recommendation  secured  me  a 
welcome  in  the  quarters  where  I most  desired  it.  He 
took  me  once  or  twice  to  see  Victor  Hugo  during  the 
master’s  brief  return  to  Paris  immediately  after  the 
signature  of  peace  with  Germany  (February-March 
1871).  Then  ensued  the  outbreaks  of  revolution  and 
re-action — the  Commune  and  its  bloody  suppression 
followed  by  the  presidency  of  Marshal  Macmahon — 
during  which  Hugo  could  not  make  France  his  home 
but  had  once  more  to  withdraw,  first  to  Brussels  and 
then  for  a while  again  to  Guernsey.  Meantime  he 
was  busy  upon  his  volume  UAnnee  Terrible , embody- 
ing in  every  passionate  and  high-pitched  mood  of  lyric, 
elegy,  narrative,  invective  and  satire  alternately  the 
emotions  he  had  endured  during  the  recent  tragedies 
of  his  country.  The  volume  appeared  early  in  the 
summer  of  1872.  I reviewed  it  as  well  as  I could  in 
an  English  magazine,  and  through  our  common  friend 
Burty  sent  a copy  of  the  review  to  the  master,  holding 
such  offering  to  be  due  as  an  act  of  courtesy  though 
knowing  well  that  he  could  not  read  my  attempt ; 
for  his  knowledge  of  English  was  as  vague  and  wild  as 
is  to  be  inferred,  for  instance,  from  his  christening  an 
English  character  in  one  of  his  novels  Tom- Jim- Jack 
and  from  his  imagining  that  the  Firth  of  Forth  means 
La  premiere  de  la  quatrieme . Burty  carried  out  my 


VICTOR  HUGO 


255 


request,  and  I have  before  me  the  letter  in  which  he 
tells  me  so,  expressing  at  the  same  time  his  wish  that 
he  were  himself  a better  English  scholar ; assuring 
me  that  the  master  had  been  much  touched  with  some 
words  in  my  last  paragraph  when  they  were  translated 
i to  him  ; telling  further  how  he,  Victor  Hugo,  was  on 
the  point  of  withdrawing  again  to  Guernsey  from  the 
too  distracting  calls  upon  his  time  and  strength  in 
Paris ; and  ending  with  some  interesting  remarks  on 
the  way  in  which  during  his  brief  return  Hugo  had 
recovered  the  poetic  ascendancy  over  younger  minds 
which  in  his  absence  had  been  usurped  by  newer 
poets  such  as  Baudelaire  and  Leconte  de  Lisle.* 

* Burty’s  letter  gives  so  close  and  clear  a view  of  the  phase  which 
French  critical  opinion  was  passing  through  at  this  juncture  that 
the  reader  may  care  to  have  the  text  of  the  relevant  passages 
before  him  : — 

“ J’ai  re£u  votre  etude  sur  L'Annee  Terrible.  Je  l’ai  lue  avec 
un  reel  interet,  regrettant  toujours  que  mon  peu  de  pratique  de 
la  langue  anglaise  me  fasse  evidemment  passer  sur  des  delicatesses 
de  langue  sans  les  apprecier.  Mais  je  crois  avoir  saisi  l’esprit  du 
fond  qui  est  sain  et  genereux.  Je  l’ai  porte  hier  soir  a M.  Victor 
Hugo  et  lui  ai  lu  le  dernier  paragraphe  et  il  en  a ete  fort  touche. 
II  quitte  Paris  tout  prochainement,  peut-etre  demain.  II  ne  peut 
done  vous  remercier  d’ici  mais  il  le  fera  aussitot  arrive  k Guernsey, 
il  vous  adressera  la  lettre  au  bureau  meme  du  journal.  Je  suis  tres 
heureux  d’avoir  ete  l’instrument  de  votre  rencontre.  . . . Les 
correspondances,  les  visites,  les  demandes  de  secours,  Faccablent. 
Il  a perdu  tout  son  hiver,  se  couchant  fort  tard  et  ne  pouvant  plus  , 
comme  a Guernsey,  jouir  du  grand  travail  du  matin.  Je  ne  puis 
que  l’approuver,  mais  j’en  suis  bien  attriste.  Personnellement, 
je  crois  qu’il  m’aimait.  Mais  surtout  son  gout  se  retrempait  dans 
1’atmosphere  toute  speciale  de  Paris.  Son  attitude  politique  etait 


256 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


The  crisis  through  which,  after  the  lapse  of  fifty 
years,  Western  civilization  is  once  more  passing,  has 
inevitably  thrust  into  the  foreground  of  all  our  thoughts 
many  of  the  same  grim  world-problems  as  in  those  days 
most  exercised  the  poet,  including  that  ancient, 
tragical,  inveterate  historic  conflict  of  Germany  against 
France,  and  that,  universal  and  immeasurably  more 
inveterate  still,  of  Have-not  against  Have.  Will  the 
reader  pardon  me  if,  in  order  to  revive  for  him  the 
special  atmosphere  of  those  days  and  the  scope  and 
character  of  the  work  it  inspired  in  Hugo,  I reprint 
here  some  paragraphs  from  my  review? 

In  these  leaves  written  with  a proud  spirit  and  with  truth, 
these  pages  of  mourning,  battle,  and  affright,  if  there  has  gone 
forth  against  my  will  the  voice  of  anguish,  if  I have  cried  with 
the  cry  of  torture,  or  so  much  as  once  denied  my  Hope,  let  that 
voice  of  my  sobbing  be  stifled  and  unheard ; I cancel  the  cry,  I 


excellente,  enfin  il  avait  reconquis  sur  le  groupe  des  jeunes  poetes 
de  talent  l’ascendant  que  durant  son  exile  avaient  pris  Baudelaire 
et  Leconte  de  Lisle,  hommes  d’une  reelle  valeur,  mais  incapables 
de  vues  aussi  hautes,  aussi  fecondes  que  celles  de  Hugo.  La  pre- 
sence reelle  est  un  dogme  dans  la  vie  comme  dans  la  catholicisme.” 

The  master’s  own  letter  of  acknowledgment  followed,  but  is  a 
piece  of  merely  polite  formality : — 

“ Hautville  House, 

8 Sept.  1872. 

Cher  Monsieur  Sidney  Colvin,— 

Vous  avez  voulu  me  laisser  a votre  passage  le  plus  gracieux 
souvenir.  Vous  avez  ecrit  sur  UAnnee  Terrible  une  grande  et 
belle  page,  d’une  haute  portee  et  d’une  vraie  elegance.  Je  vous 
remercie  par  mon  plus  cordial  serrement  de  main. 

Victor  Hugo.” 


VICTOR  HUGO 


257 


erase  the  word  and  unsay  it.’  That  is  the  courageous  way  in  which 
M.  Victor  Hugo,  towards  the  end  of  his  new  poem,  takes  up  his 
old  sanguine  prophecy  of  human  and  universal  progress.  “ Paris 
is  the  city  of  destiny  and  of  the  dawn,  the  seat  of  the  future  and 
of  light,  the  travailing  mother  of  the  To  Be  ; she  has  loved  much 
and  suffered  much  ; envied  be  her  calamities  ; fair  is  her  fate, 
for  she  bleeds  for  mankind,  and  her  crown  of  thorns  shall  turn  in 
the  fulness  of  time  to  an  undying  aureole  in  the  sight  of  the  nations.” 
— And  so  on,  and  again  and  again.  The  same  confession  of  faith 
is  amplified  and  re-iterated  through  page  upon  page  of  pompous 
imagery  and  passionate  declamation ; amid  the  mass  of  which 
there  come  and  go  such  lights  of  tenderness  and  power  as  thrill 
the  spirit  from  time  to  time  with  the  sense  of  incandescent  genius, 
a revelation  of  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  poetry.  The  creed  has 
two  articles.  The  poet  says  : “ I believe  in  God  the  Spirit  of 
Justice,  who  is  one  with  the  Ideal,  Conscience,  Liberty  ; who  is 
the  Soul  of  our  Soul,  the  vast  Unknown  behind  all  religions,  the 
highest  Right,  the  universal  Law,  the  supreme  Immovable,  the 
dazzling  incomprehensible  All.  And  I believe  in  Paris,  which  is 
the  city  of  God,  the  champion  of  Justice,  the  seat  of  Conscience, 
the  martyr  of  Liberty,  the  lamp  of  Reason,  the  inextinguishable 
hearth  of  the  Soul.  . . . When  Paris  founders,  faith  turns  to 
doubt ; zero  is  the  sum  of  things  ; the  goal  of  our  journeying  is 
naught.  But  once  more — no  ; the  heart  beats  high  again  ; the 
city  shall  survive,  shall  mew  her  mighty  youth  ; creation  shall 
not  prove  a mockery  ; the  pillar  of  light  shall  not  be  a gibbet  of 
shame  ; there  shall  not  be  poison  in  the  fields,  the  woods,  the 
flowers  ; history  shall  not  be  a frantic  and  furious  chaos  of  fatalities  ; 
the  world  shall  not  be  a dismal  indictment  against  its  Maker ; 
comets  shall  not  need  to  wring  their  hair.  I to  doubt  the  issue  ! 
I to  deny  the  human  progress  which  is  the  pivot  of  the  vast  move- 
ment of  the  welded  universe  ! /,  the  watcher  for  the  dayspring, 

to  despond  because  the  night  is  long  ! Nay,  I have  done  my  duty  : 
I suffer  and  am  glad  : I march  on,  knowing  that  nought  of  all  is 
false,  knowing  that  my  hope  is  sure,  and  steadfast  is  the  firmament. 
And  I bid  ye  hope  with  me,  all  ye  that  love  and  are  cast  down : 


258 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  I bear  ye  witness  that  the  unknown  Being  who  scatters  abroad 
splendours,  flowers,  universes,  and  takes  no  count ; who  pours 
forth  stars,  winds,  and  seasons  as  from  ever-open  granaries  ; who 
gives  forth  everlastingly  to  sky-piercing  mountains  and  dyke- 
devouring  seas  the  gifts  of  azure  and  lightning  and  daylight  and 
the  sky  ; who  floods  space  with  the  torrents  of  light,  life,  and  love 
— I bear  ye  witness  that  He  who  dieth  not  and  passeth  not  away, 
who  spread  the  book  of  the  world  which  priests  mis-spell,  who 
gave  beauty  for  the  vesture  of  the  Absolute,  who  is  real  despite 
of  doubt  and  true  despite  of  tales — I bear  ye  witness  that  He,  the 
Eternal,  the  Infinite,  is  not  as  a riddle  having  no  key.’,  But  how 
turn  the  resounding  and  heroical  French  verse  into  cool  English 
prose  ? . . . 

Tho  democratic  philosopher,  recurring  to  the  last  overwhelm- 
ing plebiscite  of  France  in  favour  of  the  Empire,  saves  his  faith 
by  going  over  the  old  tale  of  the  difference  between  the  People, 
before  whom  he  bows,  and  the  Populace,  whom  he  despises.  From 
the  chaos  of  the  multitude  there  can  spring  fine  flashes  ; but  let 
an  evil  wind  blow,  and  what  then  ? The  people  that  surged  about 
Gracchus  at  the  rostrum,  that  made  the  strength  of  Leonidas  and 
Winkelried  (says  the  poet,  plunging  at  large,  as  is  his  way,  hither 
and  thither  into  history),  of  Washington,  Bolivar,  and  Manin,  of 
Garibaldi  as  he  marched  a Homeric  hero  among  the  Theocritean 
hills,  of  the  Convention  when  it  held  head  against  thirty  kings, 
and  all  Europe  broke  in  froth  against  the  pensive  grenadiers  of 
Sambre-et-Meuse — hail  once  and  again  to  that  sovereign  people  ! 
But  when  the  priest-driven  mob  murders  honour  in  Coligny  and 
reason  in  Ramus,  insults  the  severed  head  of  Charlotte  Corday, 
spits  upon  Aristides,  Jesus,  Zeno,  Bruno,  Columbus,  Joan  of  Arc 
—then  it  is  the  populace,  the  many-headed  ; then  it  is  blind  and 
maddened  numbers  ; then  the  tyrant  All  is  as  bad  as  the  tyrant 
One.  And  though  all  men  vote  for  Caesar,  the  prophet  will  have 
them  wrong  ; no  majority  shall  cow  his  conscience  ; he  will  say 
that  the  world  goes  ill,  and  wait  until  this  tyranny  be  overpast. 
He  will  bend  his  ear  to  the  tombs  of  the  just  of  old  who  threw  off 
life  rather  than  bear  it  with  dishonour ; he  will  ask  ces  purs  tre- 


VICTOR  HUGO 


259 


passes  how  long  it  is  fit  he  should  bear  the  load.  Last  comes  the 
fine  image  of  the  snow-storm  : “ What  is  it  falling  round  about 
us  in  the  darkness  ? Oh,  the  millions  of  snow-flakes,  and  millions 
again  ! Oh,  the  blackness  ! Oh,  the  snow  ! — death  to  any  that 
falls  asleep  in  it,  dim  leveller  of  things,  covering  the  mountains, 
covering  the  fields,  covering  the  towns,  whitening  over  the  loath- 
some sewer-mouth,  filling  heaven  with  avalanche  ! How  to  find 
the  way  where  all  is  treachery  ? ” 4 ‘Ah,  but  where  will  all  the 

whiteness  be,  what  will  have  become  of  the  shroud,  to-morrow, 
once  the  sun  shall  have  risen  an  hour  ? ” 

August,  1870,  is  the  first  month,  and  gives  its  name  to  the 
first  section,  of  the  Terrible  Year  proper.  We  are  admitted  to 
the  meditations  of  Napoleon  the  Little,  who,  being  a mole  and 
blind,  imagines  that  he  is  working  in  the  dark  and  that  his  minings 
are  concealed  ; and  says  to  himself  that  now  is  his  time,  while 
the  nations  are  blinking,  to  turn  true  Charlemagne  instead  of 
gingerbread  Buonaparte,  to  strike  his  blow  for  European  suprem- 
acy, and  put  everything  upon  the  hazard  of  the  die.  Out  upon 
the  suicide,  fumbling  blindly  to  his  doom,  and  taking  the  proud 
army  of  France  with  him,  to  lead  her  without  stores,  without 
commanders,  into  the  snare  ! Do  books  tell  of  another  felo-de-se 
like  this  ? — and  once  more  we  are  off  again  over  all  history  and 
geography  for  the  answer.  An  Indian  fakir  letting  the  vermin 
devour  his  body  that  his  soul  may  go  to  Paradise  ; a coral  fisher 
imperilled  among  Liparsean  reefs  ; Green  in  his  balloon ; Alex- 
ander marching  to  Persia,  and  Trajan  to  Dacia — all  these,  anybody 
and  everybody  who  ever  ran  a risk,  ran  it  for  a purpose  ; but  a 
knave  going  out  of  his  way  to  ruin,  a Damocles  breaking  the  thread 
which  kept  the  sword  from  falling,  a mountebank  emperor  cutting 
off  his  head  to  keep  on  his  crown — whoever  saw  or  heard  of  the 
like  ? It  was  in  order  that  Destiny  might  be  fulfilled — that  this 
man,  being  crime  incarnate,  being  the  prince  of  paltriness  and  the 
pickpocket  of  potentates,  might  have  such  a fall  as  that  the  common 
sewer  itself  must  receive  his  carcase  with  shame.  . . . And  so 
we  come  to  Sedan — we  hear  how  in  the  fatal  valley,  amid  the  shock 
of  furious  hosts,  in  the  midst  of  thunder,  in  the  hell  of  slaughter 


260 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  the  rain  of  iron,  when  all  were  drunk  with  the  smoke  of  blood 
and  no  man  thought  but  of  battle,  amid  the  bellowing  of  the  human 
hecatombs  and  the  angry  clangour  of  the  trumpet,  suddenly  from 
one  voice  broke  the  monstrous  petition  : “ Let  me  live  ! ” Then 
all  was  over  ; a bandit,  a bandit  had  surrendered  the  sword  of 
Gaul  and  of  France,  of  Brennus  and  of  Clovis,  had  belied  the  mighty 
memories  of  old,  had  disgraced  “ the  haughty  group  of  battles  ” 
from  Chalons  and  Tolbiac  to  Wagram  and  Eylau  ; henceforth 
Agincourt  shall  smile,  Ramilies  and  Trafalgar  shall  be  pleasant 
memories  ; there  shall  be  solace  in  the  thought  of  Blenheim  or 
Rossbach  ; Sedan  shall  be  the  only  word  of  shame.  The  poetry 
runs  very  high  throughout  this  passage  of  the  battle,  and  culmin- 
ates with  an  astonishing  effect  of  rhetorical  grandeur  in  the  resonant 
catalogue  of  proper  names — the  personified  Battles  with  lightning 
flashing  from  their  brows  and  wings,  the  historic  heroes  from  Heristal 
to  Napoleon — that  are  said  to  give  up  their  sword  upon  this  day 
of  humiliation. 

The  prospect  of  a siege,  implying  a death-struggle  between 
the  two  nations,  opens  the  chapter  of  September  with  one  of  the 
finest  things  in  the  book.  “ Choice  between  the  Two  Nations  ” it 
is  called  ; and  the  poet  lets  his  thoughts  range,  as  they  might  in 
time  of  peace  and  amity,  over  the  glories  and  excellences  of  Ger- 
many. There  is  no  greater  natidn,  he  says  ; the  blue-eyed  Teuton 
is  grand  to  think  of  among  the  confused  commencements  of  Euro- 
pean civilization.  Germany  wrought  order  out  of  the  clash  of  a 
hundred  barbarous  nationalities  ; Germany  has  been  the  bulwark 
of  the  world — has  confronted  Caesar  with  Arminius  and  the  Papacy 
with  Luther  ; German  has  had  Vitikind  as  France  has  had  Charle- 
magne— and  even  Charlemagne  was  a little  of  a German  (alas ! 
alas  ! professors  English  and  Prussian,  and  zealots  of  historic  fact! 
is  that  all  you  can  get  granted,  and  at  this  time  of  day  ?) — Greece 
has  Homer  ; Germany  has  Beethoven  ; Germany  has  music  for 
her  breath,  and  blends  in  her  mighty  symphonies  the  eagle’s  scream 
and  the  trilling  of  the  lark.  Germany  has  her  castled  crags  and 
verdant  meadows  ; her  blonde  maidens  are  like  angels  as  they 
play  on  the  zither  at  eventide.  Her  landscape  is  peopled  with 


VICTOR  HUGO 


261 


heroic  legends  ; the  Hartz,  the  Taunus,  the  Black  Forest,  are 
mystical  with  hauntings  of  prophet  and  demon  ; the  trees  beside 
the  banks  of  Neckar  are  full  of  fairies  by  moonlight.  “ Germans, 
your  tombs  are  like  trophies,  your  fields  are  full  of  mighty  bones  ; 
Germans,”  cries  the  French  poet,  putting  the  climax  to  this  cata- 
logue of  renown,  “ be  proud  and  lift  up  your  heads  ; for  Germany 
is  potent  and  superb.”  And  then  he  turns  to  his  country,  and 
cries — “ My  Mother  ! ” All  that  praise  and  more  to  Germany  ; to 
France,  the  cry  of  her  son — “ 0 ma  mere  ! ” That  is  a stroke  of 
rhetoric,  of  obvious  literary  artifice  if  you  will,  but  still  of  the 
artifice  which  is  full  of  genius  and  passion  : the  like  comes  with 
a like  effect  in  the  dramatic  writing  of  this  prince  of  modern  play- 
wrights. An  immense  accumulation  of  pleadings,  of  arguments, 
of  admissions,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  is  balanced  in  a moment 
with  three  sudden  and  pregnant  words,  a cry  from  the  heart  which 
outweighs  all  reasoning,  a thought  from  the  core  of  things  which 
scatters  with  a breath  all  accumulations  of  commonplace  expostu- 
lation or  conjecture  round  about  them.  At  the  latter  end  of  the 
poem  a similar  turn  is  given,  a similar  bridle  put  by  the  poet  upon 
his  natural  volubility,  in  a passage  referring  to  the  burning  of 
buildings  by  the  hunted  Parisians  of  the  Commune.  “ You  set 
fire  to  the  Library  ? ” asks  the  poet.  “ Yes,  I did,”  says  the  petroleur. 
Then  expostulation  : “ But  it  is  a crime  against  yourself  and  your 
own  soul ; it  is  your  own  treasure  and  heritage  you  are  consuming. 
Books  are  the  champions  of  progress  and  the  poor.  What,  turn 
against  your  best  friends  ! fling  a torch  amid  the  Homers,  the 
Jobs,  the  Platos,  the  Dantes,  the  Molieres,  the  Miltons,  the  Vol- 
taires,  the  Beccarias  ! waste  the  records  of  these  arch  enemies  of 
war,  famine,  and  the  scaffold,  cruelty  and  prejudice,  pride  and 
wrath,  evil  and  slavery,  kings  and  emperors  ! What,  throw  away 
your  own  cure,  your  only  hope  and  wealth  ! ” Then  comes  the 
answer  : “ But  I cannot  read  ! ” The  “ Je  ne  sais  pas  lire  ” of  the 
incendiary  outbalances,  in  its  concentrated  reproach  against 
society,  the  whole  magazine  of  reproaches  which  society  can  bring 
to  bear  against  the  incendiary. 

The  death-struggle  once  fairly  engaged,  the  poet  can  see  no 


262 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


longer  any  good  or  any  justice  among  the  enemies  of  his  country. 
They  in  their  turn  are  bandits — powers  of  darkness  leagued  together 
to  extinguish  the  light  of  the  world,  feudal  barbarians  bent  with 
a vindictive  instinct  on  the  suppression  of  the  city  of  the  Idea. 
Berlin  is  incarnate  evil,  Paris  is  incarnate  good  ; Corporal  William 
is  as  bad  as  pickpocket  Louis.  It  has  become  a contest  of  night 
and  day  ; it  is  a host  of  robbers,  locusts,  devourers  in  the  dark, 
that  have  come  forth  to  prey  upon  the  sacred  place  left  defence- 
less. History  shall  hold  the  marauders  up  to  perpetual  shame  ; 
“ those  princes  ” shall  be  names  of  everlasting  reproach  ; there  is 
nothing  to  take  away  from  the  city  who  girds  herself  to  resistance 
the  whiteness  of  her  fame,  nothing  to  redeem  the  blackness  of  the 
infamy  of  those  who  assail  her.  She  is  a pure  virgin  whose  body 
may  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  ravisher,  but  whose  spirit  shall  repay 
them  with  hatred  inextinguishable.  . . . 

In  the  middle  of  all  these  rhetorical  and  sometimes  tedious 
generalities  of  denunciation  on  the  one  part  and  devotion  on  the 
other,  there  come  fine  bursts  in  almost  every  key  of  poetry.  Traits 
taken  really  and  directly  from  the  life  of  the  siege,  traits  of  actual 
misery  or  actual  heroism,  are  put  before  us,  sometimes  with  tender- 
ness, sometimes  with  ferocity,  in  descriptive  language  of  which 
the  placid  and  reserved  simplicity  will  burst  up  every  now  and  then 
to  let  through,  in  language  of  quite  another  kind,  that  sense  of 
ulterior  mystery  and  immensity,  that  familiar  presence  of  elemental 
powers,  which  always  seems  like  a sea  buoying  up  from  beneath 
the  thought  of  Victor  Hugo.  How  shall  one  define  the  subtle 
essence  of  poetry  in  this  piece  of  contemplative  realism  written 
‘‘On  seeing  some  dead  Prussians  floating  in  the  Seine,’’  in  which 
the  patriot’s  vindictiveness  gives  such  a strange  sting  to  the  brood- 
ing sweetness  of  the  dreamer  ? To  translate  is  hopeless  : — 

“ Oui,  vous  etes  venus  et  vous  voil&  couches  ; 

Vous  voila  caresses,  portes,  baises,  penches, 

Sur  le  souple  oreiller  de  l’eau  molle  et  profonde  ; 

Vous  voila  dans  les  draps  froids  et  mouilles  de  1’onde ; 

C’est  bien  vous,  fils  du  Nord,  nus  sur  le  flot  dormant ! 

Vous  fermez  vos  yeux  bleus  dans  ce  doux  bercement. 


VICTOR  HUGO 


263 


Vous  aviez  dit : ‘ — Allons  chez  la  prostituee. 

Babylone,  aux  baisers  du  monde  habituee, 

Est  la-bas  ; elle  abonde  en  rires,  en  chansons ; 

C’est  lei*  que  nous  aurons  du  plaisir  ; o Saxons, 

O Germains,  vers  le  sud  tournons  notre  ceil  oblique. 

Vite  ! en  France  ! Paris,  cette  ville  publique, 

Qui  pour  les  etrangers  se  farde  et  s’embellit, 

Nous  ouvrira  ses  bras  . . — Et  la  Seine  son  lit.” 

It  is  close  to  this  that  there  falls  the  passage  which  goes  furthest 
in  setting  forth  the  nature  of  that  cosmic  ideal,  or  sum  of  ideals 
of  which  we  have  spoken  as  the  god  of  the  poet’s  worship.  It  is 
an  indignant  outburst  in  reply  to  a priest  calling  him  “ atheist  ” ; 
there  is  something  like  a precedent  for  it  in  Voltaire  : but  M. 
Victor  Hugo  need  fear  no  impeachment  of  his  originality,  and 
he  has  never  hurled  all  the  resources  of  literature  with  greater 
power  against  an  enemy  than  here  ; he  has  never  been  more  crush- 
ing than  in  his  exposition  and  proof,  how  the  real  atheist  is  the 
priest  with  his  debased  deity  of  superstition,  and  the  poet  with 
his  august  deity  of  the  ideal  the  real  believer. 

Close  to  this,  again,  comes  the  choicest  passage  of  all  that 
are  written  in  another  strain  which  runs  through  the  poem,  and 
gives  the  sense  of  a peculiar  and  touching  charm  as  often  as  it 
appears.  The  poet  is  a patriarch  ; he  has  his  two  little  grand- 
children, George  and  Jeanne.  The  play  and  prattle  of  these  infants 
about  the  ancestral  knees,  as  they  live  bravely  or  piningly  through 
the  hardships  of  the  time,  make  themselves  heard  ever  and  anon 
amid  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  terrors  of  the  Apocalypse.  First 
it  is  an  address  to  little  Jeanne  on  the  30th  of  September,  her 
birthday.  She  is  a year  old,  and  her  grandfather  tells  her  how 
she  is  like  a little  callow  bird  waking  up  to  chirp  vaguely  in  the 
warmest  of  nests,  and  so  pleased  to  feel  its  feathers  begin  to  grow  ; 
how  these  are  beautiful  pictures  in  the  picture-books  grandpapa 
lets  her  finger  and  fumble — yes,  but  not  one  of  them  half  as  beautiful 
as  Jeanne  herself.  How  the  wisest  saws  in  books  do  not  mean  half 
so  much  as  can  be  read  in  her  wondering  angel’s  eyes ; how  God 


264 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


is  near  when  she  is  there  ; what  a big  girl  she  is  getting — a whole  year 
old  ; how  everybody  is  her  slave  ; and  as  for  poor  old  grandpapa, 
he  only  exists  for  her  pleasure  and  benefit ; how,  alas  ! the  world 
she  smiles  upon  is  all  at  strife  ; how  the  city  rings  with  the  clang 
of  arms  while  she  is  murmuring  like  a bee  in  summer  woods  ; how 
for  him,  when  the  humble  voice  lisps  its  song  and  the  sweet  hands 
are  stretched  out,  all  the  tumult  and  terror  seem  to  disappear, 
and  God  seems  to  give  the  beleaguered  city  His  blessing  through 
a little  child. 

Next,  it  is  New  Year’s  Day,  and  grandpapa  has  been  out  to 
buy  the  children  playthings.  They  will  tell  you  some  day,  he 
says  to  George  and  Jeanne,  how  grandpapa  was  a kind  old  fellow, 
who  did  his  best  in  the  world,  and  had  a rough  time,  but  was  never 
cross  to  the  little  ones,  and  how  he  did  not  forget  to  go  out  and 
buy  them  toys  in  the  middle  of  the  famous  bombardment ; and  it 
will  make  you  turn  thoughtful  as  you  sit  under  the  trees.  After 
that,  things  have  become  too  terrible  for  the  little  folks  to  be  so 
much  thought  about ; there  has  been  starvation,  despair,  capitulation, 
disgrace.  “ Stroke  on  stroke  ! bolt  on  bolt ! ” — in  the  midst  of 
his  country’s  agony,  the  poet  has  his  son  struck  down  by  sudden 
death  ; the  little  girl  and  boy  are  left  orphans.  That  is  at  Bor- 
deaux, at  the  time  of  the  voting  of  the  treaty  of  peace.  Then 
comes  Paris  again  ; the  Commune,  and  the  redoubled  agonies  of 
civil  war,  conflagration,  blind  and  barbarous  reprisals.  The  poet 
has  taken  shelter  at  Brussels,  has  been  driven  thence  by  brutal 
clamour  ; has  felt  once  more,  and  hurled  at  his  calumniators,  some 
of  the  scorn  of  Dante  ; has  launched  plea  after  plea  in  mitigation 
of  the  promiscuous  ferocity  of  the  victorious  soldiery.  In  the 
middle  of  June  and  bloodshed,  the  poet  has  had  a thought  for  the 
children — innocents  with  hearts  like  the  morning,  who  know  nothing 
of  all  that  is  doing,  and  are  quite  content  to  warm  themselves  in 
the  sunlight,  though  it  streams  upon  them  standing  amid  sham- 
bles. . . . 

There  is  one  instance  where  an  incident  calls  to  Victor  Hugo’s 
mind  some  passages  of  his  own  childhood ; and  this  draws  from 
him  one  of  those  irresistible  jets  of  poetry,  in  which  the  blending 


VICTOR  HUGO 


265 


of  rapture  and  sadness,  old  enchantments  and  present  sorrow 
alternating  to  and  fro  within  the  pensive  brain,  is  expressed  with 
incomparable  art.  There  was  a great  old  building  and  garden, 
on  the  south  side  of  the  river,  the  disused  convent  of  the  Feuillan- 
tines,  where  Victor  Hugo’s  mother  (she  would  never  be  content 
without  a garden)  set  up  house  when  he  was  a child  of  seven  with 
his  father  away  at  the  wars,  where  she  lived  for  several  years,  and 
gave  shelter  for  a time  to  the  proscribed  General  Lahorie.  The 
site  has  been  greatly  changed.  Here  Victor  Hugo  was  lingering 
one  day  during  the  siege,  when  he  was  almost  struck  by  a bomb- 
shell. First  of  all  he  fires  out  into  an  amusing  and  characteristic 
burst  of  invective  against  the  bombshell ; calls  it  all  the  names 
he  can  think  of,  and  asks  why  it,  the  child  of  nether  hell,  should  drop 
forsooth  out  of  the  azure  vault.  Then  : — “ The  man  your  tooth 
just  grazed  ” had  sat  down  to  think.  His  eyes  were  looking  out  on 
a bright  dream  from  amid  the  darkness  ; he  was  musing  : he  had 
played  there  when  he  was  quite  little  : he  was  watching  an  appari- 
tion of  the  past.  That  was  where  the  Feuillantines  used  to  be. 
Your  stupid  thunder  crashes  to  pieces  a Paradise.  How  charming 
it  was  ! how  we  used  to  laugh  ! Growing  old  is  watching  a glow 
that  has  faded.  There  used  to  be  a green  garden  where  this  street 
goes  ; and  the  shell  finishes,  alack  ! what  the  pavement  had  begun. 
That  is  where  the  sparrows  used  to  peck  the  mustard- flower,  and 
the  little  birds  picked  quarrels  with  one  another.  The  wood  used 
to  be  full  of  gleams  that  were  supernatural ; such  trees,  such  fresh 
air  amid  the  quivering  sprays  ! Then  one  was  a little  flaxen-poll ; 
now  one  is  grey  ; one  was  a hope,  now  one  is  a ghost ! Young  ! 
one  was  young  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  dome  ; now  one  seems  as 
old  as  it. 

4 4 Le  voila, 

Ce  passant  reve.  Ici  son  ame  s’envola 
Chantante,  et  c’est  ici  qu’&  ses  vagues  prunelles 
Apparurent  des  fleurs  qui  semblaient  eternelles. 

Ici  la  vie  etait  de  la  lumiere  ; ici 
Marchait,  sous  le  feuillage  en  avril  epaissi, 

Sa  mere  qu’il  tenait  par  un  pan  de  sa  robe. 


266 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Souvenirs  ! comme  tout  brusquement  se  derobe ! 

L’aube  ouvrant  sa  corolle  & ses  regards  & lui 
Dans  ce  ciel  ou  flamboie  en  ce  moment  sur  lui 
L’epanouissement  effroyable  des  bombes. 

O 1 ’ineffable  aurore  ou  volaient  les  colombes  ! ” 

It  is  in  the  latter  months  of  the  cycle,  those  which  follow  the 
extinction  of  the  Commune,  that  Victor  Hugo’s  eloquence  reads, 
I think,  most  like  practical  wisdom,  and  his  vein  of  prophecy  seems 
to  take  the  colours  of  real  statesmanship.  He  had  been  no  par- 
tisan of  the  Commune  or  participator  in  it,  and  had  earned  plenty 
of  obloquy  by  holding  aloof.  But  indeed  his  fervent  ideal  humani- 
tarianism  has  little  in  common  with  practical  socialism.  He  had 
no  faith  in  that  movement  in  which  so  much  that  was  devoted, 
so  much  that  was  generous  and  heroic,  was  mixed  up  with  so  much 
that  was  evil,  lawless,  and  self-seeking,  and  the  noble  elements 
and  the  base  went  to  work  in  equal  desperation.  And  the  blood 
boils  within  him,  the  spirit  of  his  father  rebels,  at  the  demolition 
of  the  emblems  of  the  glory  of  French  arms.  He  protests  against 
the  destruction  of  the  Vendome  column  : the  moment  when  the 
ropes  of  the  Commune  are  hauling  at  that,  and  when  the  shells 
of  Versailles  are  pounding  at  the  Arch  of  Triumph,  is  of  all  others 
the  moment  of  his  deepest  despondency.  He  denounces  the  burn- 
ing of  the  palaces  with  all  his  might,  and  watches  it  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  despair.  But  when  the  troops  are  in  and  the  massacre 
begins,  when  the  population  is  being  pitched  half- killed  into  pits 
of  quicklime,  when  young  and  old,  women  and  children,  are  being 
whelmed  in  wanton  and  hideous  and  clumsy  slaughter,  then  he 
turns  round  : “I  who  would  not  have  been  with  you  in  victory 
am  with  you  in  defeat  ” ; then  he  pours  forth  cry  upon  cry  in  behalf 
of  justice,  mercy,  reason,  telling  the  story  of  the  victims  with  fearful 
reality,  urging  the  folly  of  the  butchers  with  admirable  dignity 
and  weight.  The  poet  gives  to  sights  of  terror,  outdoing  the 
grimmest  and  most  ghastly  former  offspring  of  his  imagination, 
the  same  sort  of  tranquil  and  irresistible  evidence  which  he  had 
known  how  to  give  to  those.  An  instinctive  literary  art  of  the 


VICTOR  HUGO 


267 


highest  kind  tells  the  story  of  the  hunted  mother  and  her  dead 
child,  of  the  batch  of  girls  going  to  be  shot,  of  the  boy  who  keeps 
his  tryst  with  death,  of  the  writhing  slaughter-heaps  and  the  horrid 
burials,  in  words  as  simple  as  those  which  had  told  of  his  hold- 
ing on  to  his  mother  long  ago  by  a fold  of  her  frock  in  the  garden. 
A right  and  high  sense  of  the  occasion  dictates  the  sections  44  To 
the  Downtrodden,  ” “ Flux  and  Reflux,”  “ At  Vianden,”  in  which  it 
is  urged  how  all  this  is  preparing  an  evil  day  to  come,  exasperating 
the  future,  winding  up  in  the  way  to  make  everything  begin  again, 
calling  frenzy  wisdom— 44  for  suffering  is  the  sister  of  hatred,  and 
the  oppressed  of  to-day  make  the  oppressors  of  to-morrow.*’  Again, 
these  are  the  thoughts  of  an  exile  in  a day  when  the  rest  of  the 
world  is  gay  in  June  : 44  Alas  ! all  is  not  over  and  done  because 
they  have  dug  a burial-pit  in  the  street,  because  a captain  points 
to  a wall  where  a row  of  poor  folk  is  to  be  drawn  up  for  his  squad 
to  practise  at,  because  they  keep  shooting  at  random  with  musket 
or  mitrailleuse  as  it  may  chance,  shooting  fathers  or  mothers,  the 
lunatic,  the  robber,  and  the  sick  together,  and  because  they  burn 
in  a hurry  with  lime  the  corpses  of  men  still  bleeding  and  children 
still  warm.” 

Brooding  over  the  present  horror  and  the  future  inevitable 
retribution,  the  poet  knows  not  where  to  fix  the  guilt.  Least  of 
all  will  he  blame  the  misguided  multitude  who  do  evil  through 
ignorance,  and  who  must  be  very  wretched  or  they  would  not  take 
death  so  lightly.  He  will  not  even  greatly  blame  the  party  of 
slaughter  : — 44  Nobody  means  ill ; and  yet  what  ill  is  done  ! ” It 
ends  in  his  throwing  the  blame  on  the  hostile  forces  of  fate,  44  the 
venomous  swarm  of  impalpable  causes,”  the  44  gulf,”  the  44  abyss,” 
the  44  void,”  the  elemental  principles  of  evil  that  are  akin  to  the 
elemental  scourges  of  nature,  the  mysterious  plagues  and  visitations 
that  attend  upon  man’s  estate. 

The  poet-prophet’s  purpose  of  permanent  renewed 
self-exile  did  not  hold,  and  late  in  1873  he  returned 
with  his  whole  household  from  Guernsey  to  Paris. 
After  trying  one  or  two  experimental  homes  in  the 


268 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


suburbs,  they  settled  in  two  floors  of  a large  house  in 
the  rue  de  Clichy.  I had  a general  invitation  to 
attend  the  evening  receptions  regularly  held  there, 
and  did  so  several  times  during  visits  to  Paris  about 
1874-6.  At  these  evening  gatherings  the  ex-actress 
and  ex-beauty  Madame  Drouet,  the  housemate  and 
companion  of  all  Hugo’s  later  life  even  from  before 
his  wife’s  death,  used  to  do  the  honours.  He  had 
just  turned  his  seventieth  year,  and  his  strength  of 
body  and  mind  showed  no  sign  of  abatement ; while 
his  aureole  as  poet  and  prophet  home  from  exile  was 
still  almost  undimmed,  the  various  phases  of  the 
coming  anti-romantic  reaction,  of  which  Zola  and  the 
Goncourts  were  the  chief  initiators,  not  having  gained 
much  effective  impetus  till  later. 

He  had  a gracious  and  not  too  self-conscious 
patriarchal  courtesy  and  cordiality  in  welcoming  his 
guests.  His  voice  was  mellow,  subdued  rather  than 
loud,  and  even  when  the  matter  of  his  utterance  was 
declamatory  its  delivery  was  serene.  His  sturdy 
figure  and  abundant — though  not  wild  or  untrimmed — * 
white  hair  and  beard,  with  his  firm,  easy  movements 
and  gestures,  were  full  proofs  of  vigour.  His  bearing, 
which  was  that  of  one  conscious  of  authority  and 
tempering  it  not  with  condescension  but  with  a be- 
nignant old-fashioned  grace,  I thought  became  him 
well.  But  I thought  also  that  the  demeanour  of  his 
entourage  was  too  submissive  in  homage,  and  that  the 
silence  for  which  those  nearest  him  gave  sign  when  he 
was  about  to  speak  was  inconsistent  with  social  ease. 
“ Chut,  le  maitre  va  purler  ” — surely  it  is  no  false  trick 


VICTOR  HUGO 


269 


of  memory  which  makes  me  hear  one  of  the  group  of 
satellite  friends,  Paul  Meurice  or  Vacquerie  or  Claretie 
or  Lockroy,  thus  whispering  peremptorily  to  those 
about  him,  with  a corresponding  gesture  of  the  hand, 
on  one  evening  when  the  conversation  threatened  to 
become  general.  At  any  rate  to  become  such  it  was 
never,  in  my  experience,  allowed. 

Of  the  particular  course  of  talk  at  any  one  such 
evening  reception  I have  no  memory.  Much  of  it  had 
each  time  to  do  with  the  actual  politics  of  the  hour ; 
much  with  memories  and  anecdotes  of  his  youth; 
some  with  generalized  encouragement  and  advice  to 
juniors ; more  savoured  of  the  same  habitual  blend 
of  grandiose  idealist  theism,  patriotism,  and  optimism 
together  which  permeates  so  much  of  his  writing,  and 
had  just  seemed  to  reach  its  climax  in  the  Year 
Terrible . 

On  two  occasions  when  I presented  myself  it  hap- 
pened that  Madame  Drouet  was  ailing  and  the  usual 
evening  reception,  I found,  had  been  put  off.  But 
for  some  reason  or  by  some  means,  I know  not  what, 
I was  admitted,  and  on  each  occasion  the  poet  came  in 
from  the  patient’s  bedside,  slippered  and  evidently 
anxious,  and  with  a manner  of  the  kindest  courtesy 
gave  me  the  best  part  of  an  hour  to  myself.  Now,  I 
each  time  asked  myself,  shall  I have  the  good  luck  to 
get  into  touch  with  any  other  than  the  semi-public, 
the  expected  and  almost  traditional  Hugo  with  whom 
I had  so  far  become  acquainted  ? Well,  whether  it 
were  my  fault  or  not,  the  range  of  subjects  and  the 
personality  revealed  in  talking  of  them  did  not  in  these 


270 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


tete-a-tete  conversations  greatly  change.  The  notion 
I got  was  of  a genius  living  within  a range  of  ideas  and 
emotions  vast  indeed,  but  nevertheless  fixed  and  habit- 
ual and  of  little  elasticity.  He  spoke  affectionately  of 
his  island  home  at  Guernsey,  and  said  how  he  hoped 
the  love  of  the  sea  and  of  all  its  powers  and  aspects 
which  he  had  learned  there  might  win  him  special 
sympathy  from  a maritime  people  like  ourselves. 
Sincerely  I answered  that,  sea-folk  although  we  were, 
we  had  produced  no  poet  of  the  sea  as  great  or  any- 
thing like  as  great  as  he.  When  I said  something 
of  the  sympathy  which  a great  majority  of  English 
people  had  with  his  party  in  French  politics,  and  how 
we  were  disposed  to  count  the  downfall  of  the  Third 
Empire  an  event  almost  worth  to  France  the  price 
paid  for  it,  he  expressed  a gratified  assent,  and  in 
his  always  self-possessed  and  serene  manner  uttered 
much  the  same  kind  of  sentiments  about  Napoleon 
the  Little  as  fill  the  pages  of  VAnnee  Terrible . The 
name  of  Swinburne  being  mentioned,  he  showed 
himself  informed  concerning  and  gratified  by  the  devout 
homage  rendered  him,  coupled  with  denunciations 
of  the  fallen  Empire  as  ferocious  as  his  own,  by  that 
then  youngest  and  most  dazzling  poetical  genius  of 
our  country.  Speaking  of  pending  work  of  his  own, 
he  mentioned  the  proposed  title  (never  in  point  of  fact 
used)  for  a new  volume  of  poetry  to  come — Les  Coleres 
Justes.  When  I ventured  to  wonder  whether  the 
author  of  Les  Chatiments , the  lifelong  fulminator 
against  kings  and  priests  and  conquerors  and  oppressors, 
and  all  the  cruelties  and  tyrannies  and  treacheries 


VICTOR  HUGO 


271 


of  the  world,  could  have  left  many  things  that  deserved 
his  anger  still  unscourged,  he  assured  me  yes,  there 
remained  plenty,  and  descending  to  a lower  scale 
began  to  talk  scathingly,  first  of  the  reactionary 
Assembly  of  Bordeaux,  and  next  of  some  of  the  errors 
and  blunders  of  the  military  defence  of  Paris.  General 
Trochu  (Participe  passe  du  verbe  trop  choir , as  by  a 
ponderous  enough  pun  he  has  somewhere  called  him) 
came  in  for  a full  share  of  contempt : and  then  the  poet 
went  on  to  dilate  on  a scheme  of  defence  that  should 
and  would  have  been  tried  had  he  had  his  way.  What 
should  have  been  done,  he  declared,  was  to  send  up  a 
vast  number  of  captive  balloons  from  the  beleaguered 
city  to  the  greatest  height  possible  above  the  Prussian 
lines,  a height  beyond  the  reach  of  their  artillery  : 
platforms  should  have  been  swung  in  the  air  from 
between  pairs  or  groups  of  such  balloons ; and  from 
those  platforms  the  best  scientific  chemists  of  the  city 
should  have  poured  down  deadly  corrosive  compounds 
upon  the  enemy’s  lines  which  should  have  caused  his 
hosts  to  burn  up  and  shrivel  and  be  no  more. 

The  progress  of  lethal  invention  in  the  last  fifty 
years  has  so  far  outstripped  the  dream  of  the  poet- 
prophet  as  to  make  his  imagined  expedient  sound 
primitive  and  futile  enough ; yet  his  manner  and 
language  in  describing  it  combined,  I remember,  the 
apocalyptic  with  the  familiar  in  a style  which  seemed 
impressive  enough  to  his  hearer  at  the  time.  What 
would  he  have  said  could  he  have  foreseen  how  soon 
the  device  of  the  captive  balloon  was  to  pass  out  of 
date : how  aircraft  would  within  half  a century  be 


272 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


steering  through  the  sky  almost  as  confidently  as  sea- 
ships  over  the  waves,  and  more  swiftly  ; how  it  would 
be  practicable  to  pour  down  from  them  such  a rain  of 
ghastly  corrosives,  twenty-fold  more  concentrated  than 
those  of  his  dreams,  as  would  instantaneously  blight 
and  destroy  whole  cities  and  populations ; and  how, 
if  indeed  an  end  should  come  to  wars  among  mankind, 
it  would  not  be  from  any  growth  of  brotherhood  and 
amity  among  the  nations,  but  rather  from  their  mutual 
terror  of  the  catastrophes  which  science  and  invention 
should  have  enabled  them  to  inflict  on  one  another. 

Apart  from  these  matters,  on  both  evenings  one  special 
subject  was  uppermost  in  his  talk  and  evidently  in 
his  mind,  and  that  was  the  contrast  between  himself 
and  the  last  great  world-poet  and  sage  before  him, 
Goethe,  in  the  matter  of  patriotism.  A feeling  of 
rivalry  against  Goethe,  a jealousy  of  Goethe’s  fame, 
was  never  far — so  I have  since  heard  from  those  who 
knew  him  best — from  Victor  Hugo’s  mind.  For 
much  in  the  historic  and  romantic  past  of  Germany 
he  had  (as  the  section  in  VAnnee  Terrible  above  abridged 
abundantly  shows)  a generous  admiration,  nor  had  his 
furious  and  well- justified  hatred  of  nineteenth-century 
Prussia  and  her  rulers  extinguished  it.  But  for 
Goethe,  who  in  his  view  was  a German  without  being 
a German  patriot,  he  had  no  toleration.  Doubtless 
a sense  of  poetic  rivalry  helped  more  or  less  uncon- 
sciously to  intensify  this  aversion  ; but  his  avowed 
quarrel  with  him  was  not  for  being  too  much,  but 
for  being  too  little,  of  a German.  Love  of  humanity, 
Hugo  vowed,  which  did  not  begin  at  home  was  worth 


VICTOR  HUGO 


273 


nothing.  Cosmopolitan  good-will  was  a fine  thing ; 
no  one  had  preached  it  more  ardently  than  he ; but 
to  love  one’s  own  country  first  and  best  was  the  essen- 
tial virtue  of  man.  That  while  Germany  lay  trampled 
under  the  heel  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  Goethe  should 
have  gone  as  a guest  to  the  camp  of  the  conqueror 
at  Erfurt  was  for  him  a sin  unpardonable.  Dilating 
on  it  and  comparing  his  own  frame  of  mind  on  such 
matters,  he  wound  up  by  saying,  rising  at  the  same 
time  from  his  chair  with  his  hand  at  his  heart,  “ Moi, 
je  regarde  Goethe  comme  Jeanne  d?  Arc  aurait  regarde 
Messaline .”  I have  ever  since  carried  with  me  the 
memory  of  this  typical  Hugonian  pronouncement, 
and  of  the  full,  soft,  authoritative  and  serenely  un- 
challengeable tone  in  which  he  uttered  it. 

The  master  lived  and  wrote  for  some  fifteen  years 
after  that  date,  and  naturally  I had  from  time  to  time 
work  to  do  and  friends  to  see  in  Paris  ; but  for  I know 
not  what  reason,  or  for  none,  I failed  to  seek  his 
hospitality  again.  I wonder  whether  his  appeased 
spirit  may  now  be  hovering  over  his  beloved  city, 
confirmed  in  all  his  transcendental  faiths  and  fore- 
sights by  the  retribution,  outdoing  his  own  direst 
imprecations  and  most  exulting  prophecies,  which  in 
the  fullness  of  time  has  overtaken  her  victorious 
enemies  of  the  Year  Terrible. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LEON  GAMBETTA 

In  old  days  I used  to  be  careless  about  the 
keeping  of  letters,  even  from  the  most  interesting 
correspondents,  and  the  letter  from  the  great  French 
patriot  and  statesman  which  I print  below  most 
likely  owes  its  preservation  to  the  fact  that  I gave  it, 
soon  after  it  was  written,  to  a friend  for  her  collec- 
tion of  autographs.  A recent  renewed  sight  of  it 
has  brought  back  to  my  memory  some  incidents  of 
the  acquaintance,  not  intimate  but  cordial  and  by 
me  much  prized,  which  I had  with  the  writer  in  the 
mid  seventies  of  the  last  century.  Those  were  the 
years,  as  every  one  knows,  during  which  Gambetta 
waged  and  won,  against  the  two  extremes  of  monar- 
chical or  imperialist  reaction  on  the  one  side  and 
ultra-radical  intransigeance  on  the  other,  his  fiercely 
arduous,  long-fluctuating,  up-hill  fight  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  a sane  and  moderate  republic  in  France. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1873-4  that  I first  met  him, 
going  by  appointment  to  call  on  him  at  his  modest 
quarters  in  the  Rue  Montaigne.  I had  till  then  never 
seen  him  either  in  the  tribune  or  elsewhere.  From 
his  reputation  as  the  most  impassioned  of  combatant 
political  orators  and  leaders — or,  as  his  enemies  had 

274 


LfiON  GAMBETTA 


275 


it,  the  wildest  of  demagogues — I had  expected  to 
find  in  him  a typical,  high-strung,  restlessly  excitable 
and  volatile  son  of  the  South.  It  was  therefore  with 
some  surprise  that  I found,  instead,  a substantial 
rubicund  person,  occupying  solidly  the  middle  of  a 
broad  settee,  who  welcomed  me  with  quiet  geniality 
and  proceeded  at  once  to  discuss  gravely  a question 
which  was  then  deeply  agitating  France,  that  of  the 
freedom  of  the  Press.  Within  the  previous  six  or 
eight  months  Gambetta  had  fought  two  tremendous 
battles  in  the  Chamber  on  this  subject,  one  after  the 
suppression  of  the  Corsaire  newspaper,  the  other  after 
a special  gagging  law  introduced  and  passed  by  the 
reactionary  Government  in  July.  But  in  his  own  rooms 
and  to  his  English  visitor  he  talked  of  these  matters 
without  heat  or  rhetoric,  as  though  for  the  moment 
his  interest  in  them  were  historical  and  abstract. 
He  referred  much  and  particularly  to  Milton’s  famous 
Areopagitica  (or  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed 
Printing)  as  known  to  him  in  Chateaubriand’s 
translation.  Thence  the  talk  passed  to  divers  mat- 
ters of  non-political  literature  and  of  art,  including 
the  English  school  of  painting  as  he  had  just  been 
studying  it  in  a recent  exhibition  at  Brussels  ; and  I 
came  away  realizing  what  I had  not  at  all  known 
when  I went  in,  that  here  was  a man  who,  intense 
as  might  be  the  strain  thrown  on  the  energies  and 
resources  of  his  being  by  the  daily  strife  of  politics, 
had  also  outside  of  politics  a richly  furnished  mind 
and  interests  unusually  keen  and  varied.  For  the 
next  four  years  or  more  I seldom  passed  any  time  in 


276 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


Paris  without  seeking  opportunity  to  know  him  better. 
Once  or  twice  I heard  him  speak  in  public  debate  at 
Versailles,  once  or  twice  at  semi-private  political 
gatherings  of  his  supporters.  More  often,  that  is 
perhaps  four  or  five  times,  I saw  him  in  the  character 
of  host  at  his  own  breakfast-table,  and  about  as  many 
times  as  chief  guest  at  the  evening  parties  of  that 
most  zealous  and  cordial  of  political  entertainers, 
Madame  Edmond  Adam. 

At  Versailles,  looking  down  from  the  gallery  on  to 
the  floor  of  the  Chamber  and  watching  him  shoulder 
his  way,  genially  and  at  the  same  time  commandingly, 
among  the  crowd  of  his  supporters,  taking  one  by 
the  arm,  leaning  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  next,  address- 
ing one  after  another  with  a different  persuasiveness 
or  impressiveness  or  familiarity  of  gesture  and  accost, 
I am  not  sure  but  that  I have  been  more  impressed 
with  the  sense  of  born,  instinctive  leadership  in  him 
thus  conveyed  than  even  by  the  overwhelming  power 
shown  by  him  in  set  orations  from  the  tribune.  For 
the  latter  kind  of  exhibition  report  had  pretty  fully 
prepared  one.  It  was  great,  but  it  was  not  unexpected, 
to  observe  how  he  would  begin  hoarsely  and  heavily ; 
how  the  hostile  majority  would  at  first  interrupt  and 
challenge  and  seek  to  silence  him  with  bitter  gibes 
and  taunts  ; how  presently  that  mass  of  a man  would 
take  fire  and  seem  to  be  all  enkindled  and  transformed, 
how  the  great  head  and  mane  of  hair  would  be  flung 
back,  the  hand  be  thrust  forth  in  sweeping,  dominating 
gestures  of  denunciation  or  command,  the  voice  roll 
out  rich  and  clear  in  thundering  periods  of  prophecy 


LfiON  GAMBETTA 


277 


or  argument  or  appeal  or  menace,  till  the  ranks  of 
his  enemies  would  seem  visibly  to  quiver  before  the 
storm  like  a field  of  com  before  the  gale. 

As  to  its  actual  matter,  the  speech  of  his  which  I 
remember  as  striking  me  most  was  at  some  sort  of 
private  political  or  Press  gathering  (can  it  have  been 
of  the  staff  of  the  Republique  Frangaise  ?).  When 
toasts  were  in  progress  some  one  rose  and  volunteered 
a proposal  to  drink  to  the  Universal  Republic.  Gam- 
betta  would  not  have  it  at  any  price.  He  leapt  to 
his  feet  and  shouted,  “ Qui  done  entends-je  parler  de 
la  republique  universelle  ? N’avons-nous  pas  assez 
de  peine  a fonder  notre  republique  a nous  ? ” And 
he  went  on  to  insist  how  it  was  the  paramount  duty 
and  need  of  Frenchmen  to  sink  their  own  differences, 
to  found  their  own  republic  firmly,  and  in  so  doing 
to  avoid  above  all  things  bringing  fresh  dangers  on 
themselves  by  interfering  with  the  politics  of  their 
neighbours.  To  enforce  these  two  joint  contentions 
had  become,  with  experience  and  responsibility,  the 
master  motive  of  Gambetta’s  political  life.  History 
provides  scarcely  a stronger  instance  of  the  way  in 
which  time’s  teachings,  to  quote  Shakespeare, 

Divert  strong  minds  to  the  course  of  altering  things, 

than  the  transformation  of  Gambetta  within  a couple 
of  years  from  a furiously  impetuous  preacher  of  revenge 
against  Germany  into  an  inculcator,  even  more  impas- 
sioned and  reiterant  yet,  of  France’s  need  to  live  on 
terms  of  peace  and  respect  with  all  her  neighbours, 
her  late  despoiler  included,  until  such  time  as  she 


278 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


should  be  herself  again.  The  wisdom  and  statesman- 
ship as  well  as  the  moral  courage  of  this  change  of 
course  in  Gambetta  have  come,  in  most  minds,  to 
be  beyond  question  now ; but  at  the  time  the  change 
was  the  cause  of  much  calumnious  bitterness  on  the 
part  of  his  enemies  and  of  painful  estrangement  from 
some  of  his  friends.  But  of  this  more  anon. 

At  Gambetta’s  breakfasts  in  the  Rue  Montaigne, 
and  afterward  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chausee  d’Antin, 
politics  were  of  course  always  in  the  air,  and  from 
time  to  time  one  of  his  special  lieutenants,  de  Freycinet 
or  Spuller  or  Challemel-Lacour  or  Ranc,  might  be 
noticed  going  up  to  the  head  of  the  table  for  a confiden- 
tial word  aside  with  the  chief.  But  the  social  atmo- 
sphere was  almost  as  much  literary  and  artistic  as 
political.  Both  by  taste  and  knowledge  Gambetta 
could  hold  his  own  well  and  eloquently  upon  such 
subjects.  He  had  in  youth  been  both  a greedy  reader 
and  a careful  note-taker,  and  his  memory  was  vigorous 
and  well  stored.  In  modern  literature  he  loved  both 
the  great  classics  and  the  great  romantics,  but  had 
little  appetite  for  the  then  new  and  aggressive  school 
of  realists.  One  of  the  best  dissections  of  Zola  and 
his  work  I ever  heard  was  at  Gambetta’s  table.  It 
was  one  of  the  guests,  if  I remember  aright,  and  not 
the  chief  himself,  who  struck  me  as  hitting  the  nail 
precisely  on  the  head  when  he  declared  that  Zola 
was  under  a mere  delusion  in  imagining  himself  a 
realist ; that  he  was  truly  a perverted  ultra-romantic, 
the  essential  note  of  whose  work  was  the  lyrisme 
effrene  with  which  he  emphasized  and  piled  up  and 


LfiON  GAMBETTA 


279 


exaggerated  the  squalid  and  loathsome.  Among  the 
habitual  guests  at  these  breakfasts,  and  one  of  the 
host’s  most  intimate  and  trusted  friends,  was  the 
famous  actor  Coquelin,  whom  I knew  independently. 
I have  a lively  recollection  of  a day  when,  after  the 
meal  was  over  and  cigarettes  lighted,  Coquelin,  seated 
straddlewise  and  talking*  over  the  back  of  his  chair, 
held  forth  on  the  manner  in  which,  if  he  had  the 
chance,  he  would  wish  to  play  the  part  of  Alceste 
in  Moliere’s  Misanthrope.  “ On  pent  etre  distingue 
quand  on  veut ,”  he  interjected  of  himself,  with  a 
gesture  meant  to  indicate  as  much  : but  the  idea 

that  such  a part  could  fit  him  only  showed  that  an 
artist  incomparable  within  his  range,  and  brilliantly 
intelligent  to  boot,  could  be  very  imperfectly  conscious 
of  his  own  physical  limitations.  He  did,  I believe, 
attempt  the  part  afterwards  in  England  (did  he  also 
in  America  ?)  but  never  at  the  Comedie  fran9aise. 

At  the  salon  of  Madame  Adam  in  the  Boulevard 
Poissoniere  Gambetta’s  special  gift  and  steadfast 
purpose  of  closing  cleavages  in  his  party,  of  bringing 
and  keeping  together  the  divers  dissentient  and  mutu- 
ally suspicious  groups  which  it  included,  were  seconded 
to  admiration  by  the  sagacious  and  single-minded 
goodwill  of  the  host,  and  still  more  by  the  social 
charm  and  tact  of  his  wife,  a woman  as  cultivated  as 
she  was  handsome  and  gracious.  There  too  the 
atmosphere,  though  mainly  political,  was  literary  and 
artistic  as  well.  My  own  chief  original  passport  to 
the  lady’s  notice  and  hospitality  had  been  my  interest 
in  Greek  art  and  literature.  I was  grateful  to  her 


280 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


for  the  opportunities  her  invitations  gave  me  of  watch- 
ing her  at  her  woman’s  work  of  putting  one  after 
the  other  into  good-humour,  now  some  fossilized 
doctrinaire  of  the  Left  Centre,  now  some  fiery  young 
ultra-radical  from  the  south,  and  now  some  moody 
waverer  between  several  camps,  and  so  predisposing  all 
manner  of  discordant  male  tempers  to  yield  to  the 
persuasions  and  arguments  by  which  the  chief  should 
induce  them  to  sink  differences  and  work  together. 
But  she  had  her  own  unsubduable  and  passionately 
impatient  emotions  of  patriotism,  and  could  not  prevent 
“ La  Revanche  ” from  being  the  continual  cry  not  only 
of  her  heart  but  of  her  tongue.  After  a while  Gambetta’s 
policy  of  never  letting  the  word  be  uttered,  however 
deeply  the  mind  might  cherish  the  purpose,  wore  out 
and  alienated  this  headstrong  feminine  spirit.  His 
reasoned  conviction  was  that  France  was  bound  to 
live  on  terms  of  respect  and  international  courtesy,  if 
not  amity,  with  Germany  until  time  should  bring  her 
strength  and  opportunity  to  stand  up  on  equal  terms 
and  demand  restitution  of  the  lost  provinces  or  com- 
pensation for  them.  She  crudely  and  blindly  denounced 
this  policy  as  “ Bismarckism,”  and  not  only  their 
political  co-operation  but  their  friendship,  despite  loyal 
efforts  on  both  parts  to  preserve  it,  came  to  an  end. 
This  happened  within  a year  or  two  after  her  husband’s 
death  in  1877  ; and  by  1879  she  was  devoting  her 
whole  energies  to  the  foundation  and  conduct  of  a 
great  literary  enterprise  of  her  own,  the  Nouvelle  Revue . 

Here  is  a document,  hitherto  unpublished,  which 
may  serve  to  illustrate  that  attitude  of  Gambetta 


LfiON  GAMBETTA 


281 


towards  Germany  and  the  Revanche  which  was  one  of 
the  chief  causes  of  estrangement  between  this  friend 
and  himself.  To  account  for  its  existence  I must 
explain  that  when  I was  in  Greece  in  1876  the  German 
minister  there  was  Herr  von  Radowitz  (the  “ eminent 
interlocuteur  ” of  the  letter),  a brilliant,  still  young 
diplomatist  who  had  been  until  lately  Bismarck’s  secre- 
tary and  stood  very  high  in  the  great  Chancellor’s 
favour.  He  and  I saw  much  of  each  other  at  Athens, 
and  were  companions  on  several  excursions  and  for  the 
time  being  great  friends.  He  having  to  depart  for 
Berlin  and  I for  London  about  the  same  time,  we  had 
agreed  to  come  away  together  by  one  of  the  Austrian 
Lloyd  mail-boats  proceeding  round  Cape  Malea  to 
Trieste.  An  invitation  to  dinner  for  both  of  us  at 
the  English  Legation  coming  for  the  night  on  which 
we  should  have  started,  we  decided  to  change  our  plans, 
stay  for  the  dinner,  which  we  knew  was  bound  to  be 
pleasant,  and  travel  from  Athens  by  way  of  Corinth 
and  Patras,  a short  cut  which  would  enable  us  to  reach 
Corfu  before  the  arrival  of  the  Austrian  mail-boat 
and  be  picked  up  there  by  her.  Carrying  out  this 
plan,  we  came  to  Corfu  accordingly,  and  after  a few 
hours’  rest  went  down  to  the  harbour  for  the  mail- 
steamer  at  the  hour  when  she  was  due.  The  hour 
passed  and  she  did  not  appear ; and  then  another 
hour  and  another  and  another,  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon there  came  the  news  that  she  had  been  in  collision 
with  an  English  cargo  ship  at  three  o’clock  in  the 
morning  and  gone  down  like  a stone  with  absolutely 
every  soul  on  board.  Thus  we  two  had  had  as  narrow 


282 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


an  escape  for  our  lives  as  was  possible  to  have  without 
the  least  touch  or  thrill  of  adventure  in  it.  Inasmuch 
as  the  change  of  plan  which  had  brought  it  about  was 
of  my  proposal,  Herr  von  Radowitz,  and  afterwards 
his  family,  chose  to  look  upon  me  as  having  saved 
his  life,  and  made  much  of  me  accordingly  when  I 
went  to  carry  out  some  studies  at  Berlin  the  next 
year.  Talking  incidentally  of  Gambetta  and  of  his 
position  and  aims  in  France,  von  Radowitz  said  how 
very  highly  his  moderation  and  good  sense  were  coming 
to  be  appreciated  in  Germany.  I have  never  been 
a meddler  in  politics  ; but  this  time,  fancying  from 
my  friend’s  manner  that  his  words  were  meant  to  be 
repeated,  I wrote  to  Gambetta  and  quoted  them.  It 
was  one  of  the  busiest  and  most  trying  moments  of 
Gambetta’s  whole  career,  but  he  took  the  trouble  to 
answer  me  with  his  own  hand,  saying  how  much  he 
valued  such  an  expression  of  opinion,  how  it  confirmed 
his  hopes  that  French  prudence  and  French  sincerity 
were  justly  recognized  across  the  Rhine ; but  how  at 
the  same  time  it  needed  all  his  confidence  in  the  good 
sense  of  his  fellow-countrymen  to  keep  him  from 
trembling  for  the  consequences  of  the  reactionary 
coup  of  May  16  : how  nevertheless  he  was  confident 
that  the  coming  elections  would  result  in  a victory 
for  the  party  of  peace  and  moderation  both  in  home 
and  foreign  affairs.* 

* 4 Mon  cher  Monsieur  Colvin, — 

Je  vous  suis  extremement  reconnaissant  de  la  lettre  si  interes* 
sante  que  vous  avez  bien  voulu  m’ecrire.  J’avais  depuis  dej& 
longtemps  le  pressentiment  tres  vif  qu’au  del&  des  Vosges  on  savait 


LfiON  GAMBETTA 


283 


In  writing  to  Gambetta  as  I did  I had  not  at  all 
realized  the  extent  to  which  he  was  making  it  his 
own  duty  and  business  to  inform  himself  at  first  hand 
of  the  state  of  political  and  military  affairs  in  Germany. 
In  his  reply  he  naturally  does  not  give  me  the  least 
hint  of  the  fact,  which  has  since  come  out,  that  he  had 
actually  himself,  barely  a month  before  the  date  of 
my  letter,  spent  a fortnight  incognito  in  the  enemy’s 
country  observing  and  studying  these  matters  for 
himself,  f His  reference  in  the  second  paragraph  to 

voir  et  juger  sainement  et  notre  conduite  et  notre  sincerite.  Mais 
rien  ne  pouvait  plus  opportunement  me  confirmer  dans  mes  espe- 
rances  et  mes  vues  que  les  declarations  si  nettes  et  si  fermes  de 
votre  eminent  interlocuteur. 

4 Toutefois  je  dois  dire,  pour  ne  rien  laisser  dans  l’ombre,  qu’il 
me  faut  toute  la  confiance  legitime  que  m’inspire  le  bon  sens  de 
mon  pays,  pour  ne  pas  trembler  devant  les  consequences  possibles 
de  la  monstrueuse  a venture  du  16  Mai.  Heureusement  nous 
vaincrons  et  alors  il  sera  donne  aux  hommes  de  bonne  volonte, 
animes  de  sages  idees  liberates  et  progressives,  de  donner  a tous 
ceux  qui  au  dete  de  nos  frontieres  observent  1’evolution  de  la  France, 
des  preuves  et  des  gages  de  leur  politique  de  paix  et  de  moderation 
au  dedans  et  au  dehors,  Veuillez  croire  a mes  sentiments  devoues, 

‘ Leon  Gambetta, 

4 35,  Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d’Antin, 

‘ Paris,  11  October,  1877.’ 

t The  circumstances  of  this  tour  are  fully  related  by  Gambetta 
in  a letter  to  Madame  Adam  dated  September  20  and  published 
in  the  sixth  volume  of  her  Souvenirs  (Nos  Amities  Politiques 
avant  Vabandon  de  la  Revanche,  Paris,  1908,  pp.  388-393).  In 
the  course  of  the  next  year,  1878,  pourparlers  for  a formal  and 
public  meeting  of  Gambetta  and  Bismarck  were  set  on  foot,  but 
afterwards  broken  off  by  Gambetta  lest  such  a meeting  should  be 
misinterpreted. 


284 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  pending  crisis  in  France  relates  of  course  to  the 
consequences  of  Marshal  MacMahon’s  action,  on  the 
16th  of  the  previous  May,  in  arbitrarily  dismissing 
the  ministry  of  Jules  Simon  and  forming,  in  the  teeth 
of  Republican  majorities  both  in  Chamber  and  Senate, 
a ministry  of  violent  reaction  under  de  Broglie  and 
Fourtou.  Differences  among  the  various  reactionary 
parties,  and  perhaps  some  bed-rock  strain  of  soldierly 
honesty  in  the  Marshal  himself,  had  saved  France 
from  the  military  coup  d'etat  and  attempt  at  mon- 
archical restoration  which  had  been  generally  expected 
to  follow.  The  Chamber  had  been  legally  dissolved 
and  elections  for  a new  Chamber  held.  The  declara- 
tion of  the  result,  so  decisive  for  the  whole  future 
history  of  France,  was  due  on  October  14,  only  three 
days  after  the  date  of  Gambetta’s  letter  to  me  printed 
above.  A large  although  diminished  Republican 
majority  was  in  fact  returned,  confirming  Gambetta’s 
prophetic  threat  that  the  Marshal  would  have  either 
to  submit  or  resign  ( se  soumettre  on  se  demettre).  He 
first  submitted  to  the  extent  of  appointing  a ministry 
from  the  Left  Centre  and  Left,  and  about  a year  later 
resigned.  By  this  time  Gambetta  had  become  in 
all  men’s  eyes  incontestably  the  chief  personage  in 
France.  But  wisely  or  unwisely,  he  did  not  think 
the  time  ripe  for  him  to  assume  the  office  of  Chief  of 
the  State.  First  as  president  of  the  budget  commission, 
then  for  nearly  two  years  as  President  of  the  Chamber, 
then  for  a short  while  as  Prime  Minister,  then  as 
president  of  the  army  commission,  he  continued  to 
be  involved  in  incessant  struggles  on  behalf  of  the 


l£on  gambetta 


285 


domestic  and  foreign  policies  he  thought  wise.  Mean- 
while every  kind  of  rancorous  jealousy  and  ingratitude 
was  unchained  in  endeavours  by  his  enemies  and  false 
friends  to  blacken  him  in  the  sight  of  France  as  a 
would-be  dictator ; and  the  worst  of  the  obloquy 
thus  aroused  was  only  beginning  to  pass  away  when 
death  overtook  him  (December  31,  1882). 

During  those  last  four  years  I was  much  less  in  France 
than  previously,  and  saw  little  of  him.  Indeed  I cannot 
remember  that  I ever  spoke  with  him  after  he  had 
become  President  of  the  Chamber ; or  shared  his 
hospitality  under  its  new,  more  sumptuous  and  cere- 
monious conditions  at  the  Palais  Bourbon.  Certainly 
I never  saw  nor  suspected — but  in  this  I was  practically 
at  one  with  all  except  the  very  nearest  of  his  intimates 
— the  existence  of  the  tie  which  had  been  through  all 
those  strenuous  years  the  governing  fact  and  secret 
inspiration  of  his  life.  Since  one  of  his  friends  * has 
made  public  the  story  of  his  relations  with  Made- 
moiselle Leonie  Leon,  and  the  determined  self-abnega- 
tion which  kept  that  devoted  woman  from  consenting, 
until  almost  the  very  end,  openly  to  share  the  life 
which  all  the  while  she  was  secretly  guiding  and 
inspiring,  the  new  halo  of  a great  romantic  passion 
has  been  added  to  Gambetta’ s ever-growing  fame  as  a 
statesman. 

* Francis  Laur,  Le  Cceur  de  Gambetta , Paris,  1907. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 
[1876] 

[It  was  in  Gambetta’s  company  and  in  talking  to 
one  of  his  friends — the  poet  Heredia  if  I remember 
aright — that  I expressed  a special  interest  in  a certain 
kind  of  coast  scenery,  not  the  relatively  uniform  and 
level  kind  pleasantly  familiar  to  my  boyhood,  but  that 
on  the  contrary  which  presents  the  sharpest  alterna- 
tion and  most  trenchant  variety  of  character.  Cape 
constantly  interchanging  with  bay,  creek  contiguous 
to  spit  and  every  headland  sheltering  its  adjacent 
haven,  this  was  the  kind  of  coast  scenery  we  found 
that  we  cared  for  in  common  : but  only  when  its 
features  are  not  too  vast  to  be  taken  in  and  their 
contrasts  explored  by  a traveller  of  moderate  powers : 
not  on  that  grander  scale  where  every  inlet  amounts 
to  a bight  and  every  projection  to  a promontory. 

My  interlocutor  agreed  with  me  to  the  full,  and  we 
went  on  to  cap  and  confirm  each  other  in  insisting  how 
no  other  kind  of  scenery  is  so  various  as  this,  none  so 
full  of  contrast,  of  discovery,  of  allurement.  We 
reminded  each  other  how  such  a coast  at  once  invites 
you,  at  every  cove  and  inlet,  to  quiet  sojourn,  and 
beckons  you,  past  every  headland,  to  mysterious 
beyonds.  The  better  you  know  it,  the  more  entertain- 

286 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


287 


ment  you  find  in  its  surprises,  the  more  poetry  in  its 
secrets.  Your  eye  delights  to  linger  along  the  profile 
of  the  land  where  it  pushes  out  farthest  on  this  hand 
or  on  that,  and  seems  as  though  it  would  never  dip 


into  the  sea-line.  One  day  you  start  to  follow  out  the 
exploration  on  foot,  and  then  that  even-seeming  dis- 
tance breaks  up  and  complicates  itself  before  you, 
with  jutting  of  unsuspected  nesses  and  disclosure  of 
hidden  havens,  into  a succession  of  many  headlands 
instead  of  one.  Another  day  you  seek,  and  find  if 


288 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


you  are  fortunate,  some  inland  height  from  whence 
you  can  look  down,  as  it  were  upon  the  back  of  your 
hand,  upon  the  coast  line  and  learn  all  its  branchings. 
Do  you  want  peace  ? — in  the  recesses  of  the  bays  you 
shall  find  halcyon  shelter.  Do  you  want  storm  ? — 
there  is  surf  about  the  reefs  and  precipices  of  the 
headlands.  In  your  walks  you  never  know  what  you 
will  come  to  next.  You  may  think  you  have  turned 
your  back  upon  the  sea,  but  it  pushes  round  farther 
than  you  know  ; as  you  traverse  a moorland  you  may 
catch  the  gleam  of  it  unexpectedly  in  front  of  you, 
or  as  you  go  down  through  a wood  the  blue  of  it  may 
strike  suddenly  up  through  openings  between  the 
boughs.  Or  at  a moment  when  you  are  wholly  taken 
up  with  inland  sights  and  fancies,  with  orchards, 
threshing-floors,  or  hedgerow-flowers,  you  may  hold 
your  breath  as  you  become  aware  all  at  once  that  the 
sound  of  the  trees  has  taken  a fuller  note,  and  changed 
into  the  sound  of  waves  close  at  hand.  At  night,  if 
you  have  climbed  to  some  windmill  or  high  place  to 
take  the  freshness  and  the  moonlight,  a streak  of 
silver  far  off  over  the  darkness  of  the  country  may 
tell  you  of  inland  waters  of  which  you  had  not  guessed. 

I had  spoken  of  a particular  stretch  of  the  west 
coast  of  Scotland,  from  Gairloch  to  Loch  Inver,  as 
the  region  within  my  knowledge  where  effects  like 
these  are  to  be  found  touched  with  the  northern  gloom 
and  grandeur,  yet  on  too  great  or  ungraspable  a scale  ; 
and  on  the  other  hand  of  the  Esterel  in  the  South  of 
France,  from  about  Hyeres  to  Antibes,  as  the  coast 
where  the  daintiest  of  headlands  adventure  the  most 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


289 


capriciously  into  the  most  enchanted  sea.  My  friend 
suggested  that  I should  be  well  rewarded  if  I tried 
the  coast  of  the  French  Cornwall — Cornouailles,  Cornu 
Galliae,  Horn  of  Gaul,  the  most  remote  and  least- 
frequented  part  of  the  department  of  Finistere  in 
Brittany.  In  the  company  of  some  friends  I took 
his  advice,  and  the  following  are  my  notes  of  the  result. 
I let  them  stand  almost  as  they  were  written  and  printed 
at  the  time  (that  is  in  1876),  understanding  that  in 
the  main  the  character  of  the  scenes  described  and  of 
their  inhabitants  has  undergone  little  change.  The 
railway  has  been  carried  on  from  Quimper  to  Douar- 
nenez,  and  even  as  far  as  to  Audierne,  making  access 
easier  for  summer  tourists,  and  considerably  increasing 
both  their  numbers  and  the  accommodation  provided 
for  them  ; but  not,  I am  told,  so  greatly  as  to  vulgarize 
the  ground  or  much  modernize  the  ways  of  the  people. 
Nature  and  legend,  on  their  part,  are  in  such  scenes 
perdurable  and  constant,  the  one  almost  as  much  as 
the  other.] 

Although  Brittany  has  of  late  years  become  holiday 
ground,  and  receives  its  contingent  of  tourists  as 
regularly  as  Switzerland  or  the  Rhine,  still  curiosity 
or  convenience  so  guides  the  main  body  of  these  that, 
while  they  crowd  both  the  northern  and  southern 
seaboards  of  the  country,  few  by  comparison  find 
their  way  to  its  western  extremity,  to  the  land’s  end, 
or  land’s  ends,  for  there  are  several  of  them,  with 
which  the  Armorican  peninsula  confronts  the  Atlantic. 
There  is  one  point  only,  in  all  that  diversified  region  to 
the  South  of  Brest,  whither  people  have  learnt  to  go 


290 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


in  any  numbers,  and  that  is  the  Pointe  du  Raz,  a 
scene  of  which  the  guide-books  have  made  much,  so 
that  it  has  become  something  like  a resort  for  tourists, 
at  least  of  the  more  enterprising  class. 

The  nearest  railway  is  at  Quimper,  the  venerable 
capital  of  the  district  and  seat  of  its  bishopric,  a 
pleasant  river-side  city  of  gables  and  fables,  familiar 
to  every  one  who  has  been  in  Lower  Brittany  at  all. 
To  see  the  Pointe  du  Raz,  you  must  travel  some  thirty 
miles  due  west  of  Quimper,  over  a heathy  region  with 
the  sea  not  far  off  on  either  hand,  and  take  up  your 
quarters  at  the  little  fishing  town  of  Audierne.  Like 
many  towns  on  these  coasts,  Audierne  was  a great 
place  once,  but  towards  the  end  of  the  sixteenth 
century  disasters  came  upon  it,  and  it  has  gone  on  in 
a dwindled  impoverished  way,  from  which  it  is  only 
beginning  to  revive  in  consequence  of  the  modern 
expansion  of  the  sardine  trade.  The  waters  in  which 
its  boats  ply  are  very  perilous,  but  among  the  most 
abounding  in  the  world,  and  yield,  besides  the  staple 
of  sardines,  immense  numbers  of  lobsters,  crayfish, 
congers,  bass,  mullet,  and  mackerel.  The  town  lies 
near  the  mouth  of  a river,  and  consists  of  a number 
of  large  stone  houses  scattered  along  a wharf  under 
a hill ; a mile  of  well-built  jetty  or  sea-wall  prolongs 
the  wharf  out  to  the  river’s  mouth,  and  carries  at  its 
extremity  a lighthouse  to  guide  the  fishermen  into 
port.  It  is  solemn  to  walk  upon  this  sea-wall  at  night, 
and  hear  the  boom  of  the  iron-bound  outer  coasts, 
and  watch  the  lanterns  of  a belated  boat  or  two,  and 
presently  their  dim  shapes  and  sails,  as  they  make 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


291 


their  way  in  past  the  reefs  and  come  slipping  before 
a breeze  or  groaning  under  oars  up  the  channel  through 
the  dark.  As  for  quarters,  you  are  not  too  ill  off  at 
Audierne.  The  ways  of  inns  in  this  part  of  Brittany 
are  always  primitive  and  careless  enough,  and  their 
prices  not  so  admirably  low  as  in  some  places  of  the 
Leonnais,  farther  north.  But  beds  are  clean ; and 
here  at  any  rate  you  may  be  at  ease  about  your  food, 
for  your  host  himself  dines  at  table  in  the  old  fashion, 
and  carves  for  his  guests  and  talks  to  them.  He  is  a 
personage  in  these  parts,  le  pere  Batifoulier,  and  with 
his  comical  name  and  prodigious  girth  furnishes  a 
kindly  jest  to  all  the  country-side.  He  is  not  a native, 
but  came  from  Auvergne  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
and  must  have  shrewd  stuff  in  him  to  have  made  his 
way,  as  strangers  seldom  can,  among  Bretons  in  Brit- 
tany. His  corporation  is  so  vast  that  a curve  has  had 
to  be  scooped  out  of  the  head  of  the  table  to  make 
room  for  it,  and  his  arms  can  only  just  reach  out  past 
it  as  he  sits,  so  that  he  may  hold  the  gigot  upright  in 
the  dish  with  his  left  hand  while  he  carves  it  with  his 
right.  His  bulk  was  not  always  as  cumbersome  as 
it  is  now,  and  he  has  three  medals  for  lives  he  has 
saved  in  the  harbour.  It  does  you  good  to  hear  his 
deep  slow  voice  among  the  chatter  of  the  table,  and 
to  see  the  look  of  slow  humour  and  kindness  which 
plays  now  and  again  over  his  immense  swarthy 
countenance.  His  wife,  if  you  will  let  her,  will  pack 
you  a great  basket  with  bread  and  wine,  chicken  and 
lobster,  when  you  start  to  spend  the  day  at  the 
Pointe  du  Raz. 


292 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


It  is  a six  miles  drive  or  walk  from  Audierne  to 
the  lighthouse  which  is  at  the  summit  of  that  famous 
promontory.  After  you  get  clear  of  the  frequent 
hamlets,  which  make  this  desolate  region  seem  more 
desolate  with  the  sense  of  a population  living  where 
there  are  no  apparent  means  of  life,  and  after  you 
pass  from  among  the  innumerable  stone  walls  with 
which  they  fence  off  fields  where  nothing  seems  to 
grow,  you  come  out  on  a plateau  with  the  Atlantic 
close  beneath  you  on  either  hand.  At  first  you  are 
disappointed,  for  this  is  like  any  other  heathery  and 
stony  plateau  above  the  sea  ; the  height,  something 
under  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  is  not  so  formidable, 
nor  is  there  anything  so  very  striking  in  the  forms  of 
some  cliffs  that  you  discern  across  a narrow  bay  on 
your  right.  It  is  only  when  you  walk  on  past  the  light- 
house and  dip  towards  the  extremity  of  the  point  that 
the  character  of  the  place  comes  out.  The  plateau 
narrows  to  a ridge,  and  you  walk  no  longer  among 
stones  and  heather,  but  among  jumbled  masses  of 
lichen-stained  granite,  in  the  crevices  of  which  only  a 
few  sea-pinks  and  tufts  of  samphire  find  soil  enough 
to  grow.  Beneath  your  right  hand  are  sheer  granite 
cliffs  that  become  more  shattered  and  fantastic  as 
you  advance ; the  path  winds  round  the  heads  of 
chasms  ; you  peer  down  sudden  clefts  into  the  darkness 
of  which  the  sea  drives  foaming.  It  echoes  and 
booms  ; rock  and  sea  tear  at  one  another ; in  one 
place  the  sea  has  pierced  a passage,  a mere  thread 
wide,  through  the  thickness  of  the  point.  But  the 
point  juts  on  and  on,  the  riven  granite  taking  wilder 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


293 


and  wilder  forms,  the  ridge  with  its  chaos  of  heaped 
rocks  narrowing  and  narrowing,  until  at  last  you 
squeeze  your  way  between  two  boulders,  and  find 
yourself  at  the  end  of  all  things.  You  are  face  to  face 
with  an  immeasurable  vastness.  Three-quarters  of 
the  horizon  is  ocean.  You  have  to  turn  about  and 
look  south-east  to  descry  in  that  quarter  the  far-off 
line  of  bay  that  ends  in  the  long  spit  of  Penmarc’h. 
To  the  north,  if  the  day  is  clear,  you  can  trace  out  an 
endless  succession  of  headlands,  beginning  with  the 
near  Pointe  de  Van,  going  on  with  the  many-branched 
peninsula  on  the  hither  side  of  Brest,  then  passing 
beyond  the  mouth  of  Brest  harbour  along  a faint 
interminable  line  that  dips  once,  and  then  appears 
again,  fainter  and  further  yet,  where  are  the  scarce 
distinguishable  islands  of  the  archipelago  of  Ushant. 

But  more  than  the  immensity  of  the  sea,  more  than 
the  mysteriousness  of  those  far-ranging  coasts,  you 
will  be  struck  by  what  lies  immediately  under  and 
before  you.  Here  at  your  feet  the  precipice  falls 
away  and  the  ocean-currents  sweep  ; the  land  ends 
here ; but  the  battle  is  not  over  yet.  From  amid 
the  waves  the  granite  rears  itself  again  and  again. 
One,  two,  three,  great  fortresses  of  black  and  battered 
rock  appear  in  line  out  to  sea  at  intervals  of  half  a 
mile  or  more,  and  between  them  lesser  crests  and  ridges 
top  the  waves  by  a few  feet  only.  Carry  your  eye 
along  this  line,  and  you  come  to  a long  flat  island, 
with  a lighthouse,  lying  upon  the  sea  about  five  miles 
off,  and  over  that,  reefs  and  reefs  again  to  the  farthest 
horizon.  For  this  chain  of  rocks,  some  visible  and 


294 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


some  sunken,  the  remains  of  a mighty  spur  of  mainland, 
now  engulfed,  stretches  out  for  near  six  leagues  west. 

The  low  island  with  the  lighthouse  is  called  the  tie 
des  Seins,  and  is  inhabited  by  a few  hundred  fisher- 
men. It  must  be  the  most  desolate  home  in  the  world. 
It  is  often  unapproachable  from  the  mainland  for 
weeks  together.  The  strip  of  barren  soil  rises  little 
more  than  ten  feet  above  the  sea,  and  not  a tree 
grows  on  it.  The  island  has  a small  harbour  with  a 
jetty,  in  which  the  fishing-boats  anchor,  and  whither 
English  and  other  traders  come  to  carry  away  the 
produce  of  the  fisheries.  By  their  take  of  lobster 
and  crayfish  the  islanders  make  a good  deal  in  the 
season,  but  drink  all  their  money  away,  and  are  half 
starved  for  the  rest  of  the  year.  Their  only  other 
resource  is  the  burning  of  sea- weed  to  make  soda,  and 
what  waifs  and  strays  they  gather  from  shipwrecks. 
For  nothing  can  persuade  the  people  of  these  coasts 
to  keep  their  hands  off  flotsam  and  jetsam.  They  are 
not  wreckers,  this  thriftless,  sodden,  banished  race  of 

a 

the  He  des  Seins ; nay,  they  are  daring  seamen, 
and  often  heroic  in  saving  and  kind  in  tending  the 
castaway ; but  they  do  not  think  of  property  as  they 
do  of  life,  and  all  merchandize  that  comes  upon  the 
coast  they  take  for  theirs.  It  is  a coast  of  a terrible 
name  for  shipwrecks.  Much  has  been  done  and  is 
doing  with  lighthouses,  but  nothing  can  prevent 
the  deadly  Chaussee  des  Seins,  as  they  call  the  chain 
of  reefs  beyond  the  island,  and  the  perilous  Bee  du 
Raz,  which  is  the  name  of  the  channel  between  the 
island  and  the  point,  from  devouring  their  yearly 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


295 


tale  of  lives.  On  either  side  of  the  point  the  waters 
are  full  of  fish,  so  that  smacks  pass  to  and  fro  con- 
tinually in  the  Bee  du  Raz  ; as  do  greater  craft  often, 
to  avoid  the  long  circuit  outside  the  Chaussee. 

The  Breton  fisher  has  a prayer  for  the  passage : £ 4 Pray 
God  help  me  through  the  Raz  ; my  boat  is  so  little 
and  the  sea  so  great ! 5 5 And  he  has  proverbs  which 
say,  44  No  man  passes  the  Raz  without  mischance  or 
the  fear  of  it  ” ; and  again,  44  Whoso  steers  not  wisely 
in  the  Raz  is  a dead  man.”  The  currents  past  the 
point  and  among  the  reefs  are  such  that  it  scarcely 
needs  wild  weather  to  bid  the  seaman  beware.  But 
it  is  in  wild  weather  that  the  place  is  most  itself  and 
should  be  seen.  Then  the  whole  weight  of  the  Atlantic 
comes  crashing  against  the  granite  juts  and  buttresses  ; 
then  the  caves  re-bellow,  and  the  seas  storm  the  cliffs, 
and  dense  foam  drives  over  the  plateau,  and  a man 
cannot  hear  himself  nor  stand.  This  I have  never 
seen,  but  only  how  the  Raz  looked  on  a summer’s 
day  when  the  air  was  still,  with  a sense  of  distant 
thunder,  and  the  quick  lizards  came  peeping  and 
slipping  as  lightly  as  leaves  over  the  hot  rocks  about 
me.  The  Atlantic  was  burning  blue,  and  very  calm— 
but  in  that  calm  what  a perfidy  : the  waves  could  not 
keep  from  booming  ; the  tide  swung  against  the  point 
and  between  the  chain  of  rocks  with  the  force  of  a 
cataract,  but  smoothly  until  it  met  the  current,  when 
it  broke  into  a sudden  race  with  the  crossing  of  a 
myriad  shocks  and  the  leaping  of  innumerable  crests. 
Against  the  adverse  smoothness  a fishing- crew  laboured 
with  wind  and  oar  in  vain ; along  the  thickest  of  the 


296 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


race  a shoal  of  porpoises  passed  with  leap  and  fling ; 
cormorants  with  their  necks  out  flew  their  straight 
low  flights ; the  sea-gulls  wheeled  and  called.  Pre- 
sently the  swing  of  the  tide  grew  slacker ; there  was 
a half  hour  when  the  sea  ebbed  confusedly  all  ways 
instead  of  one,  and  then  the  race  began  again,  only  re- 
versed. Meanwhile  something  strange  had  happened  to 
that  forlorn  island  in  the  offing.  It  had  disappeared, 
and  in  its  place  there  brooded  over  the  sea  a dense  white 
shroud,  which  presently  came  spreading  thinly,  and 
with  an  ashen  odour,  to  the  land.  It  was  only  the 
smoke  of  the  burning  kelp,  which  had  been  thicker 
than  usual  that  afternoon,  and  had  hung  in  the  still 
air ; but  the  sight  had  a thrill  in  it,  and  made  one  think 
of  all  the  mysterious  things  that  have  been  said  and 
believed  about  the  place. 

For  the  lie  des  Seins  is  a ghostly  island,  an  island 
of  Souls,  as  in  truth  that  afternoon  it  looked  no  less. 
The  awfulness  of  the  coast,  the  peril  of  the  seas,  the 
weirdness  of  that  minute  inhabited  desert  in  the 
midst  of  the  seas,  have  possessed  the  imagination  of 
the  people.  Between  the  Pointe  du  Raz  and  the 
Pointe  de  Van  there  is  a narrow  bay  ending  in  a straight 
shore  of  sand;  and  behind  the  sand  a great  mere  full 
of  bulrushes  in  a gloomy  valley.  The  bay  is  called 
La  Baie  des  Trespasses,  Dead  Men’s  Bay,  partly  no 
doubt  from  the  natural  terror  of  the  place,  partly  because 
to  these  sands  is  washed  the  drowned  body  of  many 
a seaman,  partly  because  of  tales  which  tell  how  in 
this  place,  between  the  sea-waves  and  the  mere,  the 
spirits  of  the  unburied  dead  assemble  in  the  night-time, 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


297 


and  claim  with  moanings  a passage  to  their  home. 
The  belief,  as  it  is  said  to  exist  among  the  people  to 
this  hour,  is  very  like  what  we  find  recorded  by  Pro- 
copius thirteen  hundred  years  ago.  Hear  Procopius, 
in  Holcroft’s  spirited  English  : — “ Along  the  ocean 
shore  over  against  Brittia  ” — by  Brittia  Procopius 
makes  it  clear  that  he  means  the  island  of  Britain, 
and  by  the  parts  over  against  it  the  peninsula  we  call 
Brittany — “ along  the  ocean  shore  over  against  Brit- 
tia are  many  villages  inhabited  by  fishermen,  husband- 
men, and  boatmen,  who  traffique  in  the  island.  . . . 
They  have  the  employment  of  conducting  Soules 
departed  imposed  on  them  by  turns ; when  any 
man’s  time  comes,  they  goe  home  to  bed  towards 
night,  expecting  their  fellowe  conductor,  and  at 
midnighte  they  finde  the  door  opened,  and  hear  a softly 
Voice  calling  them  to  the  business  ; instantly  they 
rise,  and  go  down  to  the  sea-side,  finding  themselves 
constrained  to  goe  on,  but  they  perceive  not  by  whom  ; 
Boats  they  find  ready,  with  no  men  in  them,  and 
aboard  they  goe  and  sit  to  their  Oares.  They  perceive 
the  Boats  loaded  with  passengers  even  to  the  deck, 
and  the  place  of  their  Oares  not  an  inch  from  the 
water ; they  see  nothing,  but  after  an  hour’s  rowing 
come  a land  in  Brittia,  whereas  in  their  own  Boats 
they  have  much  ado  to  pass  over  in  a Day  and  a Night, 
having  no  Sailes  but  rowing  only.  And  they  instantly 
land  their  Fare,  and  are  gone  away  with  their  Boats 
suddenly  grown  light,  and  swimming  with  the  current, 
and  having  all  save  the  Keele  above  water : They 
see  no  Men  leaving  the  Boates,  but  they  heare  a Voice 


298 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


relating  to  some,  who  it  seemes  stayes  there  for  them, 
the  names  of  the  Passengers,  with  their  Titles,  and 
additions  of  what  Fathers  they  were  ; and  (if  women) 
what  husbands.”  Procopius’s  story  thus  is  that  the 
souls  are  ferried  from  Brittany  to  Britain,  but  others 
say,  to  that  mysterious  island  nearer  home.  Again 
Claudian,  in  his  invective  against  Rufinus,  makes 
Tisiphone  emerge  from  the  mouth  of  hell  at  a place  in 
Gaul : “ there  is  a place  where  Gaul  spreads  forth 
her  farthest  shore — beyond  it  stretch  the  waters  of 
the  Ocean — where  Ulysses  is  said  to  have  drawn  to 
him  the  silent  host  by  his  libation  of  blood : there  is 
heard  the  wailing  clamour  of  shades  that  flit  with  a 
thin  cry.”  When  Claudian  writes  thus  of  the  mouth 
of  hell,  it  seems  almost  as  if  he  too  had  heard  of  such 

A. 

traditions  as  linger  still  about  the  He  des  Seins  and 
Dead  Men’s  Bay.  Much  learning  has  been  spent, 
and  some  of  it  patently  mis-spent,  in  trying  to  identify 
these  places  with  other  allusions  of  ancient  writers. 
Suffice  it  that  here,  even  in  the  stillest  summer,  we 
find  a spell  that  works  upon  us  strangely — how  much 
more  then  upon  the  storm-beaten  imaginations  of 
those  who  live  and  die,  with  awe  handed  down  from 
generation  to  generation,  amid  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  place. 

A still  stronger  experience  of  gloom  and  desolateness 
is  in  store  for  one  at  another  point  of  the  coast.  If 
the  reader  will  look  at  the  little  map  farther  back,  he 
will  see  that  the  Bay  of  Audierne  is  terminated  at 
the  south-east  by  a point  called  Penmarc’h.  Instead 
of  the  plateaux  and  precipices  of  the  Pointe  du  Raz, 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


299 


the  land  here  juts  out  low  and  very  flat.  But  it  is 
treacherous  all  the  more.  The  whole  coast  is  fringed 
with  a deep  border  of  black  rocks,  not  lofty  or  threaten- 
ing, but  lying  piled  in  long  shelves  and  tables  between 
sand  and  sea — here  cleft  with  gullies  up  which  the 
waves  hurry  with  stealth,  there  running  out  in  long 
spits  and  bars  over  which  they  foam  savagely,  and 
again  studding  the  blue  for  miles  with  detached  points 
and  fragments.  One  would  say  it  was  a coast  impos- 
sible for  seafaring.  And  yet  on  these  deserted  sands 
stood  a city  that  was  once  among  the  richest  in  the 
Duchy.  Penmarc’h  in  old  days  could  equip  her 
three  thousand  men-at-arms,  and  shelter  behind  her 
jetties  her  fleet  of  eight  hundred  craft.  She  had  her 
Drapers’  Street  and  her  Jewellers’  Street,  her  almost 
independent  communal  government,  her  burghers  who 
used,  they  say,  to  toss  their  wine  only  from  golden 
cups ; her  goodly  spires  and  towers  ; her  army  of 
stoled  ecclesiastics.  Upon  the  plain  where  the  rich 
city  stood  are  now  a lighthouse,  three  or  four  squalid 
fisher-hamlets  of  a dozen  houses  each,  the  remains  of 
half  a dozen  churches,  a few  fragments  of  tower  and 
crenelation,  the  gables  of  a few  fallen  houses,  and 
many  tell-tale  mounds  and  uneven  lines  upon  the 
sand.  A score  or  so  of  fishing-boats  hang  their  nets 
to  dry  in  a scanty  anchorage  between  two  spits  of 
rock.  Never  has  been  such  a downfall  so  close  within 
man’s  memory.  The  first  blow  to  the  prosperity 
of  Penmarc’h  was  struck  by  the  English,  who  descended 
here  in  1404  under  Admiral  Wilford,  and  to  whom 
the  place,  being  unfortified  because  of  its  extent  and 


300 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


the  nature  of  the  ground,  yielded  easy  plunder. 
Against  similar  chances  the  citizens  tried  fortifying 
private  houses  and  churches  ; nevertheless  they  were 
continually  harassed  by  pirates.  The  great  source 
of  their  wealth,  besides  a large  trade  with  Spain,  was 
a bank  of  codfish  off  their  coast,  the  richest  then 
known.  Presently  changes  in  the  bars  and  currents 
took  this  resource  away,  and  later  the  cod  fisheries  of 
Newfoundland  superseded  theirs.  The  changes  of  bar 
and  current  by  degrees  also  made  their  anchorage 
more  dangerous.  And  so  the  city  was  on  the  decline 
already,  when  the  great  blow  came  to  it  thus,  at  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  wars  of  the  League 
had  brought  upon  Brittany  a more  cruel  anarchy  than 
upon  any  other  part  of  France.  Marauding  partisans 
fortified  themselves  wherever  they  chose,  and  harried 
the  country.  The  most  ferocious  of  these,  the  young 
Guy  Eder  of  Fontenelle,  came  one  day,  from  his  island 
stronghold  in  a bay  to  the  North,  insinuated  himself 
into  the  good  graces  of  the  Penmarc’h  burghers  and 
their  wives,  and  then  sprang  upon  them  with  his 
cut-throats,  burned,  sacked,  slew,  and  finally  trailed 
off  to  his  island  a booty  that  loaded  three  hundred 
boats.  That  day  made  an  end  to  Penmarc’h.  The 
best  part  of  its  surviving  inhabitants  scattered  them- 
selves among  other  better  defended  towns.  The 
descendants  of  the  remainder  are  the  scanty  fisher 
population  whom  you  find  to-day. 

This,  too,  is  a place  where  people  go  to  see  as  a 
sight  the  warfare  of  the  elements.  The  thunder  of 
these  reefs,  the  rush  of  the  waves  upon  these  ledges. 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


301 


the  storm  of  sand  and  spray  along  the  plain,  the 
mingling  of  earth,  heaven,  and  ocean,  are  in  their  way 
not  less  impressive  than  the  spectacle  of  the  Raz.  One 
day  five  years  ago  * the  sea  dealt  in  this  place  a felon 
stroke.  Two  ladies  and  three  children  had  come  to 
watch  a storm,  and  were  standing  in  front  of  a cabin 
which  a painter  had  built  for  himself  just  out  of  reach 
of  the  waves.  It  was  no  very  great  gale,  but  the  painter 
called  out  to  them  to  mind  or  the  spray  would  wet  them. 
The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when  from 
a gully  in  the  rocks  beside  them  a sea  leapt  up,  and 
swept  them  in  a moment  to  their  deaths.  A cross 
clamped  into  the  rock  marks  the  place.  The  inhabit- 
ants declare  that  no  wave  was  ever  known  to  break 
so  far  before.  The  husband  of  one  of  the  ladies 
was  serving  in  Paris  at  the  time  ; he  wrote  to  her 
as  the  besieged  did  write  to  their  friends,  by  balloon, 
for  two  months  afterwards,  and  only  learnt  his  loss 
when  upon  the  capitulation  he  made  haste  to  these 
coasts  to  find  her.  What  I witnessed  at  Penmarc’h 
was  no  scene  of  storm  or  peril,  only  the  close  of  such 
another  summer’s  day  as  at  the  Raz.  The  sun  sank 
red  and  glorious  upon  a pearly  sea,  and  facing  it  a 
broad  pale  silver  moon  rose  above  the  misty  land. 
From  sun  to  moon  there  was  drawn  overhead  a great 
arch  of  clouds  narrowing  towards  either  horizon — 
clouds — films — how  shall  one  call  those  luminous 
fleeces  spanning  the  firmament,  that  magic  of  amber 
flame  and  thin-drawn  gold  against  the  blue  ? How 
tell  of  the  gradations  of  the  sky  from  zenith  to 

* I.e.  in  1871. 


302 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


horizon,  the  melting  of  sapphire  into  chrysoprase 
and  ruby  and  topaz  ? In  the  shoreward  water,  barred 
with  rocks  and  broken  into  pools,  the  subtlety  of 
that  transition  was  lost,  and  the  reflections  cast  up 
were  like  a dark-set  mosaic  of  different  coloured 
lights,  pearly  and  rose  and  blue.  With  all  this 
pageantry  in  sky  and  sea,  what  a sense  of  desolation, 
of  ruinousness  and  death.  Thin  fumes  of  burning 
kelp  hung  over  the  plain,  the  hot  air  felt  as  if  it  had 
contagion  in  it.  As  the  twilight  fell,  and  one  stumbled 
along  the  uneven  bents  between  the  great  lighthouse 
and  a church  built  almost  on  the  sands,  where  fisher- 
men give  thanks  for  safety,  the  ghostliness  of  the  place 
grew  more  and  more.  Flights  of  petrels  flitted  swift 
and  shrill  among  the  rocks ; anon  a hoarser  curlew 
whooped.  On  the  land  grew  beds  of  the  dry  sea- 
poppy,  with  its  twisting  pods  and  frail  yellow  blossoms ; 
and  presently  came  a bed  of  another  flower  and  set 
the  last  seal  of  deathliness  upon  the  place.  On  the 
thinnest  of  the  sand  the  narcotic  thorn-apple  ( Datura 
stramonium)  put  forth  its  long  bells,  pure  white  and 
fantastically  five-folded,  from  among  its  thick  growth 
of  leaves  and  spiky  seed  vessels  and  rank  stems — an 
ominous  bloom,  having,  as  Gerrard  puts  it,  “a  strong 
ponticke  savour,  that  offendeth  the  head  when  it  is 
smelled  unto,”  and  growing  among  waste  places  and 
the  haunts  of  human  decay.  Gathering  a handful 
of  these  beautiful  ghostly  flowers  in  the  moonlight, 
it  felt  time  to  hasten  away  under  one  knew  not  what 
gathering  fever  and  oppression  of  the  spirits. 

But  the  reader  has  had  enough  of  desolation,  whether 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


303 


masked  or  manifest,  enough  of  iron  cliffs,  and  places — 

Where  beyond  the  extreme  sea-wall,  and  between  the  remote  sea- 
gates, 

Waste  water  washes,  and  tall  ships  founder,  and  deep  death  waits. 

There  is  monotony  in  this,  and  I began  by  vaunting 
the  variety  of  my  favourite  scenery.  Well,  to  appre- 
ciate that,  there  is  no  need  to  go  farther  than  the  bay 
enclosed  between  two  of  our  promontories,  the  Pointe 
du  Raz  and  the  Cap  de  la  Chevre.  On  its  shores 
there  is  abundant  choice.  To  explore  them  properly, 
you  must  make  your  headquarters  at  Douarnenez, 
the  town  which  stands  at  its  innermost  south-eastern 
recess  (the  bay  is  about  fifteen  miles  by  ten)  and  from 
which  it  takes  its  name.  It  was  an  island  close  to 
Douarnenez,  the  lie  Tristan,  that  the  brigand  Fonten- 
elle  chose  for  his  fortress,  and  whither  he  trailed  his 
three  hundred  boatloads  of  plunder  from  Penmarc’h. 
For  five  years  he  was  master  of  the  town  and  island. 
From  those  five  years,  which  saw  the  ruin  of  so  many 
neighbouring  places,  the  prosperity  of  Douarnenez 
seems  to  have  begun.  It  has  gradually  taken  the  lead 
of  other  fishing-places  on  the  coast.  The  bay  of 
Audierne  yields  the  heaviest  takes,  but  can  only  be 
fished  in  fine  weather ; while  except  in  great  westerly 
gales,  the  bay  of  Douarnenez  is  one  vast  roadstead, 
with  a perfect  anchorage,  and  in  all  weathers  there  is 
refuge  in  the  double  harbour  of  the  port  itself.  The 
great  extension  of  the  sardine  trade  took  place  soon 
after  1860.  Large  fortunes  were  made ; the  fisher 
population  was  doubled  and  trebled  by  the  influx  of 


304 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


country  folk  anxious  to  share  in  the  profits  and  high 
wages  of  the  fishery.  (A  similar  circumstance  is 
recorded  of  Penmarc’h  in  the  fourteenth  century.) 

A great  part  of  the  town  is  new,  and  the  houses  and 
factories  are  solidly  built  of  stone,  without  a thought 
of  the  picturesque  ; their  rows  of  plain  square  piercings 
make  them  look  like  child’s  houses.  One  long  street 
streams  down  a hill  from  the  old  parish  church  of 
Ploare,  and  from  the  foot  of  this  the  town  parts  into 
three,  one  part  running  straight  down  upon  rocks 
that  project  into  the  bay,  a smaller  part  sloping  to 
some  wharves  and  sardine  factories  beside  an  estuary 
on  the  left,  the  largest  part  to  some  more  wharves  and 
many  more  sardine  factories  on  the  right,  beside  a 
small  artificial  harbour  built  in  the  innermost  nook  of 
the  bay.  “ It  is  difficult,”  wrote  a commissioner 
appointed  near  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  to 
report  on  the  moral,  physical,  and  statistical  aspects 
of  that  then  terra  incognita , the  department  of  Finistere 
— c<  it  is  difficult  to  see  a town  more  ill  kept  than 
Douarnenez,  despite  the  prosperity  and  rich  trade  of 
its  inhabitants.  The  want  of  police,  the  want  of  order, 
allows  rotten  sardines  and  decomposing  brine  to  be 
flung  into  the  street ; it  is  impossible,  even  in  winter, 
to  smell  fouler  smells  than  those  that  greet  one  on 
approaching  the  town ; they  are  insupportable,  in 
summer,  to  any  one  not  used  to  them  from  infancy.” 
Cambry’s  words  are  hardly  too  strong  for  the  Douarne- 
nez of  to-day.  The  population,  under  fifteen  hundred 
in  his  time,  is  nearly  nine  thousand  now.  The  sources 
of  the  place’s  prosperity  show  themselves  in  a hundred 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


305 


ways,  innocent  and  offensive.  All  the  grown  men  and 
boys  are  drawn  seaward,  and  man  the  fleet  of  four 
hundred  boats  which  is  mustered  between  this  port 
and  the  dependency  of  Treboul.  Almost  all  the 
young  girls  are  employed  in  the  factories,  on  the  various 
processes  of  preparing,  cleaning,  preserving,  and 
packing  the  fish.  The  patient  mothers  with  their  clean 
anxious  faces,  their  heavy  cloth  petticoats  and  great 
white  caps  of  various  fashion — these  are  left  alone  to 
do  the  household  work  and  mind  the  troups  of  brawling 
children.  One  feels  kindly  to  these  women,  for  their 
lot  is  hard,  with  their  menkind  engaged  on  a pre- 
carious trade,  and  given  to  drink  in  good  times  and 
despondency  in  bad ; and  kindly  to  these  children 
too,  when  they  do  not  brawl  and  scream  too  loud, 
for  they  have  merry  open  faces,  and  the  tiny  girls  are 
sweet  to  look  at  with  their  rings  of  dark  or  yellow  hair 
escaping  from  under  the  layers  of  close  caps  that  are 
put  on  them.  Girls  and  boys  alike,  the  monkeys,  will 
stretch  out  their  hands  to  you  with  a peremptory 
“ Donnez-moi  un  sou ; ” not  that  they  much  expect 
one,  and  will  send  you  on  your  way  with  a cheery 
guttural  “ Bon- jour  55  whether  they  get  it  or  no,  and 
then  fall  chattering  and  laughing  among  each  other  in 
their  own  tongue,  which,  being  beyond  your  learning, 
somehow  gives  you  a sense  of  superior  attainment  in 
the  creatures.  But  although  some  few  of  one’s  im- 
pressions of  the  people  may  thus  be  touching  or 
bright  enough,  in  the  main  one  has  to  confess  that 
they  seem  a demoralized  race.  Husbandmen  who  have 
turned  fishers,  Bretons  who  have  ceased  to  be  primitive 


306 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


without  becoming  civilized,  traders  newly  enriched, 
they  have  no  stedfast  character  or  traditions,  and 
care  chiefly  to  make  money  out  of  the  stranger  while 
they  can.  They  are  slovens  and  horribly  unclean. 
Not  only  do  strips  and  shavings  of  waste  tin,  punched 
for  making  the  sardine-box  of  our  breakfast-tables, 
glitter  in  great  heaps  about  the  banks — there  would 
be  small  harm  in  that — but  waste  brine  from  the 
salting,  waste  oil  from  the  pickling,  spoiled  bait  from 
the  fishing,  and  all  the  odious  refuse  of  the  factories  runs 
decaying  in  the  gutters,  and  makes  some  parts  of  the 
town  intolerable  ; nor  are  these  the  worst  defilements. 

But  all  these  drawbacks  will  be  nothing  to  the 
traveller  or  the  artist  who  has  once  stayed  long  enough 
to  become  aware  of  the  beauty  of  the  neighbourhood, 
which  is  a continual  feast.  From  the  hill-ranges  to  the 
bay,  the  country  slopes  down  with  alternations  of 
character  the  most  singular.  Barren  moorlands,  often 
partitioned  with  great  banks  and  hedges,  yet  growing 
nothing  within  these  divisions  but  gorse,  fern,  and 
heather,  are  terminated  above  the  sea  by  black  precipi- 
tous cliffs.  Between  these  tongues  of  moorland,  and 
dividing  them,  come  valleys  the  greenest  that  you 
ever  saw,  with  meadows  of  lush  grass  and  galingale, 
and  osier-beds  and  fields  of  grain  and  hemp,  and 
burdened  orchards,  and  homesteads  hidden  among 
great  clumps  of  elms ; and  at  the  sea  such  valleys  are 
terminated  by  level  lengths  of  sand,  in  which  you  will 
find  not  the  tenderest  shell  once  broken.  And  so  the 
whole  shore  of  the  bay  is  a succession  of  wild  cliffs 
alternating  with  perfect  sands,  the  length  of  each 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


307 


extending  generally  for  a mile  or  two  at  a stretch. 
In  some  places  the  richest  inland  verdure  comes  down  to 
the  very  sea  itself,  in  a way  that  seems  fabulous.  One 
such  place  is  close  north-eastward  of  the  town.  Foot- 
paths lead  you  down,  among  great  moist  banks  grown 
with  mossy  beeches,  elms,  and  sycamores,  some  of 
them  of  noble  size,  upon  a tiny  emerald  meadow  which 
is  set,  within  great  tangled  hedges,  upon  the  very 
rock  itself.  Farther  on,  the  richest  jungle  of  brambles, 
sloes,  hazels,  and  honeysuckles  hangs  upon  the  face  of 
the  cliff.  You  may  sit  with  the  shadow  of  this  verdure 
about  your  head  and  your  feet  dipping  into  deep 
transparent  sea,  and  watch  the  great  green  woodpecker 
go  from  stem  to  stem  of  the  trees,  and  the  kingfisher 
flash  from  point  to  point  of  rock.  It  is  not  easy  to 
be  tired  of  this  sea,  with  its  deep  pure  colour  and 
splendour  beneath  a summer  sky,  with  its  far-spread 
gildings  and  marblings  when  the  sun  plays  through 
clouds,  with  the  ominous  sudden  darkness  that  hangs 
over  it  when  storms  gather  along  the  Black  Mountain, 
with  the  busy  fisher  fleets  putting  in  or  out  that  people 
it  in  almost  all  weathers.  But  if  any  day  you  do  feel 
tired  of  the  sea,  it  is  easy  to  turn  landward  and  ex- 
change it  for  sights  of  scarcely  less  charm  and  variety. 

This  is  not  a good  country  to  walk  through,  as  a 
tourist  walks,  because  of  the  high  banks  and  hedges 
that  shut  out  your  view  from  the  roads  ; but  to  walk  in, 
as  one  walks  who  is  staying  in  a country,  it  is  perfect. 
Do  not  keep  to  the  high-roads,  but  find  your  way  at 
large.  The  Breton  peasant  does  not  himself  love 
high  roads,  but  has  a track  of  his  own  wherever  he 


308 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


wants  to  go.  Innumerable  single  tracks  or  lanes  of 
this  kind,  sometimes  up  between  the  brooms  and 
brambles  on  the  top  of  a great  bank,  sometimes  deep 
down  in  a hollow  between  two  banks,  sometimes  over 
the  open  moor,  lead  secretly  winding  and  doubling 
from  hamlet  to  hamlet,  from  farmstead  to  farmstead, 
from  one  wayside  sanctuary  to  another,  from  windmill 
to  cottage,  from  field  to  wood,  nay,  oftenest  of  all 
from  nowhere  to  nowhere.  Not  one  of  them  but  will 
lead  you  to  pleasant  sights,  and  out  of  one  character 
of  soil — and  with  soil,  of  climate — to  another.  The 
still,  marshy  hollows  have  one  atmosphere,  the  tinkling 
brooksides  beneath  the  trees  another,  the  bleak  landes, 
and  clumps  of  lonely  pines  upon  the  ridges,  a third. 

There  is  only  one  unity  in  it  all,  and  that  is  in  its 
colour.  Hardly  anywhere  have  I seen  the  colours  of 
landscape  so  rich — so  solemn  and  at  the  same  time  so 
vivid.  The  greens  even  of  Ireland  as  I remember 
them  are  pale  beside  the  intensity  of  these  in  moist 
places.  The  heather  is  of  a larger  kind  and  a much 
brighter  purple  than  with  us,  and  in  dying  takes  a rich 
lingering  russet  that  gives  a singular  beauty  to  the 
moorlands.  The  mosses  and  lichens  are  of  a redder  gold 
or  a softer  silver  than  elsewhere.  The  honeysuckle  has 
larger  flowers  and  more  brilliant  berries.  The  black- 
berries are  as  large  and  rich  as  mulberries  with  us.  There 
are  places  where  ferns  and  loosestrife  become  colossal, 

and  dank  moisture  feeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth. 

The  fields  of  buckwheat  bloom  with  a creamier  white, 
and  ripen  with  stalks  of  a richer  and  more  transparent 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


309 


amber  and  crimson  than  in  other  places.  The  sheep 
are  all  black,  or  rather  of  a fine  velvet  brown.  To 
this  rich  colouring  of  nature  the  costume  of  the  people 
answers  admirably.  It  is  a picture  to  come,  as  one 
constantly  does,  upon  a group  of  women  kneeling 
at  their  washing  round  an  open  tank  beneath  the  trees ; 
their  dresses  are  of  various  deep  sound  blues  that  only 
improve  by  wear  and  washing,  relieved  by  the  white 
of  their  caps  and  perhaps  a touch  of  chocolate  in  their 
aprons  and  of  rose  or  yellow  in  their  kerchiefs.  So, 
too,  of  the  men  ; the  peasants  of  these  parishes  wear 
on  holidays  some  three  or  four  sleeveless  embroidered 
jackets,  comically  short,  over  their  sleeved  waistcoats  ; 
and  for  jackets  and  waistcoat  alike  they  must  have  fine 
cloth  from  Montauban,  of  different  shades  of  blue,  but  of 
no  false  dye  or  new-fangled  make,  or  they  will  none  of  it. 

But  I have  spoken  only  of  the  natural  sights  of  this 
neighbourhood,  and  they  are  only  half  its  charm. 
It  abounds  also  in  interesting  works  of  man’s  hands. 
This  is  not  a country  where  you  find  such  obvious  and 
impressive  monuments  of  ancient  worship  as  the 
famous  single  stone  of  Do!,  or  the  league-long  ranges 
of  Carnac  ; but  lesser  stone  monuments  of  the  same 
order  are  plentiful  on  the  desolate  levels  of  the  landes , 
here  as  in  all  the  rest  of  Brittany,  and  are  often  not  very 
easy  to  distinguish  from  the  blocks  which  nature  her- 
self has  piled  and  jumbled.  And  there  are  remains 
to  be  sought  for  of  Gaulish  oppida , and  Roman  camps 
and  feudal  castles.  And  there  are  the  little  covered 
sanctuaries  dedicated  to  some  saint  or  other,  at  every 
spring  of  water ; and  chapels  in  glades  of  the  woods ; 


310 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  most  abundant  of  all  those  crosses,  Calvaries,  in 
grey  stone,  that  stand  wherever  a few  houses  are 
clustered  together,  and  often  in  lonely  places  where  you 
see  them  by  themselves  against  the  sky.  Sometimes 
they  are  rich,  these  shrines  of  wayside  prayer,  and 
have  figures  of  all  the  twelve  Apostles  standing  about 
the  foot  of  the  cross  ; more  commonly  the  column 
rises  from  a plain  base  of  steps,  and  carries  only  at  its 
summit  the  weather-worn  images  of  Christ  and  of  his 
mother.  Both  for  these  outdoor  stone  carvings,  and 
for  wooden  images  in  the  churches,  there  is  a local 
style  of  much  uncouthness,  which  continues  still  in 
practice  and  which  one  must  not  take  as  necessary 
evidence  of  antiquity.  The  churches  themselves 
in  these  parts,  with  a few  notable  exceptions,  belong 
to  a belated  provincial  Gothic  of  the  sixteenth  or 
seventeenth  century ; they  are  always  built  on  high 
ground,  and  with  their  steeples  of  open  work,  in 
which  you  can  see  the  bells  a-swing,  form  one  of  the 
most  characteristic  features  of  the  country. 

Then,  over  and  above  the  visible  works  of  nature 
and  of  man,  every  spot  of  soil  or  sea  is  full  of  legend 
and  poetry.  Wherever  one  has  to  do  with  Celts,  that 
people  of  poets,  one  finds  them  atoning  for  all  the 
disasters  of  their  history  by  what  has  been  well  called 
a system  of  imaginary  revenges.  One  finds  them 
inventing  a heroic  past  that  never  was  ; consoling 
themselves  for  the  failures  of  their  destiny  by  beautiful 
fancies,  and  throwing  a grace  over  their  hard  unhopeful 
lives  with  romantic  dreams,  traditions,  usages.  These 
extremities  of  the  Breton  Cornwall,  above  almost  all 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


311 


other  places,  have  been  the  haunt  of  the  Celtic  spirit 
and  its  poetry.  I do  not  know  how  much  of  it  still 
lives,  either  in  memory  or  custom,  among  the  people, 
whose  ways  are  changing  fast;  but  what  has  been 
collected  in  books  is  enough  to  make  the  whole  ground 
alive  to  one.  There  is  one  great  myth  common  to  the 
Celtic  race  in  many  places,  the  myth  which  tells  of  a 
mighty  city  submerged  for  the  wickedness  of  its 
inhabitants.  In  Ireland,  the  waters  of  Lough  Neagh 
are  supposed  to  cover  the  vestiges  of  such  a city ; 
and  in  Wales,  the  bay  of  Cardigan.  But  the  myth  has 
associated  itself,  in  most  detail  and  consistency,  with 
this  bay  of  Douarnenez.  As  a matter  of  fact,  traces 
of  Homan  roads  leading  from  inland  to  the  bay,  traces 
of  Roman  buildings  on  the  lie  Tristan  and  at  many 
points  of  the  shore  near  the  town  of  Douarnenez, 
point  certainly  to  an  important  station  which  existed 
at  this  point  of  Gaul,  and  on  ground  upon  which  the 
sea  has  at  least  partially  encroached.  These  remains, 
in  the  days  when  legends  grew,  must  have  been  far 
more  conspicuous  than  now.  The  popular  imagina- 
tion seems  to  have  taken  hold  of  them,  and  of  the 
reputation  of  a certain  Gradlon,  who,  as  far  as  real 
history  shows,  seems  to  have  had  an  historical  existence 
as  count  over  a small  principality  in  the  Black  Moun- 
tains in  the  sixth  or  seventh  century.  * With  these  data, 
* I waive  of  necessity  all  notice  of  the  discussions  which  have 
raged  in  this  matter  between  inquirers  of  different  schools,  for 
Gradlonism  is  a war-cry  ; but  the  result  seems  to  be  that  the  great 
King  Gradlon  of  the  fifth  century  seems  to  have  been  created  by 
the  Breton  imagination  out  of  a small  Count  Gradlon  who  lived 
in  a later  time. 


312 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


and  with  that  national  myth  of  a submerged  city  in 
their  brains,  the  people  have  fashioned  a legend  like 
this  : — 

Gradlon  the  Great  was  King  of  all  Cornwall,  and 
had  his  capital  at  Quimper.  When  he  and  his  kingdom 
were  converted  by  Saint  Corentin,  he  made  over  the 
city  of  Quimper  to  the  government  of  that  saint,  and 
went  to  live  and  rule  his  dominions  from  another  city 
by  the  sea.  This  city  was  called  Is,  and  was  one  of 
the  mightiest  and  goodliest  in  the  world.  But  men 
lived  there  too  riotously.  It  was  built  on  low  ground 
beside  the  sea  ; and  the  waters  were  kept  out  by  a pair 
of  great  sluice-gates  of  which  no  man  had  the  key — a 
key  of  pure  gold — but  the  king  only.  Now  King 
Gradlon  had  a daughter,  the  Princess  Dahut,  and  loved 
her  dearly.  But  Dahut  cared  neither  for  God  nor  man, 
and  was  first  in  all  manner  of  riotousness ; and  the 
lovers  that  were  brought  to  her  nightly  she  was  wont 
to  murder  before  dawn,  and  send  their  bodies  to  be 
flung  into  a pit  far  within  the  country.  So  God  was 
angry  against  Dahut  and  against  that  city.  And 
one  day  King  Gradlon  met  Saint  Corentin  (or  as  others 
say  his  disciple  Saint  Guennole)  in  the  forest  of  Nevet ; 
and  the  saint  said  to  him,  “ Beware ; for  the  wrath 
of  God  is  about  to  make  itself  felt  against  thee  and 
thine.”  But  the  king  took  no  heed.  And  one  night 
after  the  feast  was  over,  the  foul  fiend  came  in  the  guise 
of  a lover  to  Dahut,  and  caressed  her,  and  asked  her 
for  the  golden  key  from  about  her  father’s  neck.  And 
Dahut  went  to  her  father  where  he  slept,  and  took  the 
key  from  about  his  neck,  and  gave  it  to  her  lover. 


AT  THE  LAND’S  END  OF  FRANCE 


313 


And  the  foul  fiend  vanished  away,  and  took  the  key, 
and  turned  it ; and  the  sluice-gates  were  opened,  and 
the  waters  went  over  the  city.  And  King  Gradlon 
leapt  upon  his  horse  and  rode  for  life ; and  Dahut 
begged  with  a great  voice  that  he  would  take  her  up 
behind  him.  And  he  took  her  up  ; but  the  sea  pursued 
them ; and  a voice  cried,  “ Let  go  the  accursed  one 
that  rides  behind  thee,”  and  Dahut’s  arms  were 
loosened,  and  she  fell  and  was  drowned,  and  the 
waters  were  stayed ; and  the  place  where  she  fell  is 
called  Poul-Dahut  to  this  day. 

Poul-Dahut  is  the  modern  Poul-David,  the  estuary 
that  separates  Douarnenez  from  Treboul.  And  there 
are  a hundred  tales  told  how  Dahut  still  haunts  the  bay, 
and  may  be  seen  sitting  on  the  rocks  in  the  form  of  a 
siren,  a presage  of  ill- weather ; and  how  Gradlon’ s 
horse  still  ranges  the  country  at  night  with  tramp  and 
neigh  ; and  how  in  calm  weather  the  fishermen  look 
down  through  the  blue,  and  see  upon  the  sands  of  the 
bay  the  ruins  of  the  wicked  city — 

Old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  beneath  the  wave’s  intenser  day. 

Nor  is  that  the  only  cycle  of  legends  that  haunts  this 
region.  The  Celts  of  Brittany  have  a whole  calendar 
of  their  own  saints,  and  in  places  round  about  you 
shall  be  shown  how  Saint  Corentin  had  his  hermitage 
here,  and  Saint  Guennole  or  Saint  Honan  wrought  a 
miracle  there,  and  so  on  without  end.  And  as  usual, 
emigrants  from  the  island  of  Britain  have  not  only 
carried  the  great  Arthur  cycle  with  them  to  these 


314 


MEMORIES  AND  NOTES 


coasts,  but  their  descendants  have  identified  its  scenes 
with  the  places  among  which  they  themselves  lived. 
Thus  the  lie  Tristan,  anciently  and  properly,  it  would 
seem,  called  Tutuarn  after  a saint  of  that  name,  has 
got  to  be  thought  of  in  connection  with  Sir  Tristram 
of  Lyonesse.  And  Plomarc’h,  which  is  the  name  ofk 
that  point  of  richest  verdure,  of  woodpeckers  and 
kingfishers  by  the  rocks,  is  pointed  out  as  the  home  of 
King  Mark,  the  uncle  of  Sir  Tristram  and  husband, 
of  Sir  Tristram’s  mistress  in  the  same  legend  ; whereas 
in  truth  the  whole  tenor  of  the  legend  demands  that 
Mark  should  have  been  king  not  of  this  but  of  our 
island  Cornwall.  Marc’h,  Mark,  means  a horse,  and 
it  is  curious  to  find  the  tale  of  Midas  told  of  this  King 
Mark  of  the  popular  imagination.  He  had  horse’s 
ears,  and  used  to  put  all  his  barbers  to  death  for  fear, 
they  should  tell  of  it.  One  day  he  suffered  a friend, 
sworn  to  secrecy,  to  do  the  barber’s  office  and  live 
afterwards.  The  friend  must  needs  go  and  whisper 
the  secret  to  the  sands  of  the  sea.  In  the  place  where 
he  whispered  there  sprang  up  three  reeds ; certain 
bards  cut  these  reeds  to  make  music  with,  and  the 
secret  came  along  the  music — Plomarc’h,  Plomarc’h, 
the  King  of  Plomarc’h  has  horse’s  ears.  Again,  when 
clouds  roll  in  a dark  procession,  as  one  sees  them  some- 
times, along  the  ridge  of  the  Black  Mountains  and 
over  the  Mene-Hom,  they  say  it  is  Arthur  and  his 
knights  that  ride  abroad*  and  take  it  for  a sign  of 
coming  war. 


INDEX 


Acropolis,  the,  227,  229 
Seen  from  Lycabettus,  238 
Adam,  Edmond,  279 
Mme.  Edmond 

Salon  of,  275,  279-80 
Souvenirs  by,  cited , 283n. 

Tastes  and  Politics  of,  280 
Adventures,  The , oj  a Younger  Son 
(Trelawny),  241 

Advertisement,  the  demon  of,  47 
ASgina,  Island  of,  227,  238 
Seen  from  Lycabettus,  238 
Agamemnon  (^Eschylus),  Browning’s 
Translation,  letter  on,  86-7 
Airy,  Sir  George  Biddell,  Astronomer 
Royal,  35 

Aldeburgh,  Suffolk,  Crabbe’s  poems 
on,  26  ; extracts  from,  28, 

29 

Alderton,  Giles  Fletcher  at,  24-5 
Amazing  Marriage,  The  (Meredith), 
166,  168 

Andrea  del  Sarto  (Browning), 
Browning’s  reading  of,  84 
AnnSc,  V , Terrible  (Hugo),  269,  Col- 
vin’s review  of,  254-5  db  n., 
extracts  from  review,  256 
sqq. 

Aphrodite,  Head  of,  and  Gladstone, 
193,  194. 

Archaeology,  museum  of,  opened  at 
Cambridge,  221-3 
and  Excavations,  210  sqq. 
Architecture,  vulgarization  of,  in 
modem  London,  47 
Areopagitica  (Milton),  referred  to,  by 
Gambetta,  275. 

**  Ariel  ” (or  “ Don  Juan  ”),  Shelley’s 
boat,  sinking  of,  Trelawny 
on,  247—8 

315 


Aristophanes's  Apology  (Browning), 
80 

Art,  L\  d'etre  Grand-pert  (Hugo),  114 
Art  Criticism  of 
Burty,  253 
Colvin,  8,  48,  253 
Ruskin,  41  sqq. 

Athens,  Aspects  of  (1873),  224  sqq. 
Atmosphere  of,  qualities  of,  228 
sqq. 

First  sight  of,  217,  225  sqq. 
Funeral  monuments  in,  236—7 
Hills  surrounding,  230-1 
Athenians,  present-day,  229,  230,  233, 
235-6,  237,  239 

Att water,  in  The  Ebb-Tide,  and  Dew- 
Smith,  127 

Audieme,  289,  290-1,  292 
Bay  of,  298,  303 

Austen,  Jane,  and  Box  Hill,  163 
Austin,  Alfred,  C.B.,  154,  160 
Charles,  159-60 
Family,  gifts  of,  154,  159  sqq. 
John,  159 

Autobiographical  Notes  (W.  B.  Scott), 
on  Rossetti,  74 

Babington,  Professor  Churchill,  his 
wife,  and  R.  L.  S.,  103 
Balaustion's  Adventure  (Browning),  79 
Balfour,  Rev.  Lewis,  103 
Barrie,  Sir  James,  151 

on  the  Death  of  Meredith,  187-8 
“ Barry  Cornwall,”  89 
Barrons,  the,  of  Norwich,  160 
Barton,  Bernard,  Poems  of,  19-20, 
30  sqq. 

Miss,  marriage  of,  with  Fitzgerald, 
34 

Batifoulier,  le  pere,  291 


316 


INDEX 


Baudelaire,  — , 255 
Bayley,  William  Butterworth,  14 
His  daughter  and  the  Indian 
Mutiny,  15 

Beach , The , of  Falesa,  (Stevenson), 
149 

Bismarck,  Prince,  and  Gambetta, 
projected  meeting  between, 
283rc. 

Blacas  Collection,  the,  213 
Black  Arrow,  The  (Stevenson),  137 
Bloomsbury,  and  the  British  Museum, 
201 

Black  Mountain  : Brittany,  307,  311 
Legends  of,  314 

Blake,  William,  poems  of,  Trelawny 
on,  250-1 

Bolivar , the,  Byron’s  Schooner,  and 
Trelawny,  248 

Bordeaux  Assembly,  the,  254,  271 
Borough,  The  (Crabbe),  27  ; quota- 
tions from,  28-9 
Boswell  and  Johnson,  174 
Botticelli,  Sandro,  52 
Boulge  Hall,  and  the  FitzGeralds,  34, 
36 

Bournemouth,  R.  L.  S.  at,  141  sqq. 
Box  Hill,  George  Meredith  at,  162 
i sqq. 

Literary  associations  of,  162-4 
Boys,  response  of,  to  R.  L.  S.,  104, 
124-5 

Braemar,  R.  L.  S.  at,  134 
Branchidse,  figures  from,  211-12 
Brest,  289,  293 

Bride  of  hammer  moor.  The,  Glad- 
stone on,  197-8 

Bridges,  Robert,  Poet  - Laureate, 
poems  of,  and  R.  L.  S., 
122-3 

British  Museum,  the,  associations  of, 
201  sqq. 

Collectors’  gifts  to,  206-7 
Colvin’s  life,  home,  work,  and 
contemporaries  at,  8,  141, 
143,  172-3,  201  sqq.,  207 
Brittany,  Celtic  Saints  in,  312,  313 
Rambles  in,  289  sqq. 

Ruins  in,  309-10 
Scenery  &c.  of,  286  sqq. 

Brown,  Charles  (Armitage),  and 
Trelawny,  248,  249 n.,  250 


Browning,  Mrs.  Barrett,  death  of,  76 
“ Pen,”  and  his  father,  89 
Robert,  American  story  told  by,  85 
Characteristics  of,  78,  79,  80 
sqq.,  86,  89 

Letters  from,  to  Colvin,  86  sqq. 
Memories  of  76  sqq. 

Meeting  with,  at  Naworth,  191 
Poems  of,  79,  80 
Readings  by,  of  his  own  poetry, 
83-4 

and  R.  L.  S.,  143 
Talk  of,  78-9,  80 

Buchanan,  Robert,  attack  by,  on 
D.  G.  Rossetti  {Fleshly 
School  of  Poetry),  72,  75 
Burford  Bridge  Inn,  Keats’s  Stay  at, 
164 

R.  L.  S.’s  stay  at,  167,  168-9 
Burne-Jones,  Edward,  44,  45 
Characteristics  of,  48,  52-3  sqq. 
Friends  and  admirers  of,  48-9,  53, 
55 

Letters  from,  to  Colvin,  on  Aubrey 
de  Vere’s  Irish  poems,  and 
on  R.  L.  S.,  55  sqq. 
Paintings  of,  48,  51 

Artists’  appreciation  of,  48 
Collectors’  discovery  of,  49 
Colvin’s  enthusiasm  for,  and 
friendship  with,  48-9 
Sadness  in,  52-3 
and  R.  L.  S.,  57,  143 
Range  of  Reading  of,  54  sqq. 
and  Rossetti,  60,  61 
Watts’s  Portrait  of,  58 
Burney,  Fanny,  164 
Burton,  F.  W.,  drawing  by,  of  George 
Eliot,  91 

Burty,  Philippe,  Art  Critic,  253-4 
Letter  from,  on  Hugo,  and  Col- 
vin’s review  of  L'Annee 
Terrible,  256  & n. 

Butcher,  Sir  John  George,  Bt.,  M.P., 
167n. 

Butler,  Dr.  Montagu,  85 
Byron,  Lord,  and  Trelawny,  240, 
241,  242 


California,  R.  L.  S.’s  life  in,  128-9, 
130 


INDEX 


317 


Calvary  Crosses,  Brittany,  310 
Cambridge  Days  and  Memories,  8, 
10-12,  19,  43,  60,  103,  172, 
221-2. 

Cameron,  Mrs.  (Julia),  and  her 
Photographs,  93-4 
Cardigan  Bay,  and  the  submerged 
city  myth,  311  r 

Carlisle,  Rosalind,  Countess  of  (the 
late),  and  her  guests,  77-8, 
193 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  Browning  on,  81 
Literary  Style  of,  124 
Carnac,  309 

Casino,  the,  of  Monte  Carlo,  A 
suicide  in,  113 

Castellani,  collections  bought  from, 
for  the  British  Museum, 
213 

Caterpillar  and  Hen,  story  of,  221 
Catriona  (Stevenson),  57,  149 
Cernuschi,  — , and  Japanese  Art, 
253 

Celtic  Saints,  in  Brittany,  312,  313 
Traditions,  310  sqq. 
Challemel-Lacour,  — , 278 
Chdtiments,  Les  (Hugo),  270 
Chaussee  d’Antin,  Rue  de  la,  Gam- 
betta’s  abode  in,  278 
Child's  Garden  of  Verses  (Stevenson), 
57,  137 

Children,  little,  attitude  of,  to 
R.  L.  S.,  115,  124 
R.  L.  S.’s  interest  in,  107,  114 
Churches  in  Brittany,  310 
Claretie,  Jules,  269 
Clark,  J.  W.,  12 

Sir  Andrew,  and  R.  L.  S.,  106 
W.  G.,  12 

Clarkson,  Thomas,  at  Play  ford,  35 
Claudian,  cited  on  a place  like  the 
Baie  des  Trespasses,  298 
Clermont-Ferrand,  R.  L.  S.’s  adven- 
ture at,  110-11 

Clichy,  rue  de,  Hugo’s  home  in,  268 
Clifford,  Professor  W.  K.,  119,  and 
R.L.S.,  120 

Cockfield  Rectory,  R.  L.  S.  at,  103 
Codfishery  of  Penmarc’h,  fate  of,  300 
Collections,  purchased  for  the  British 
Museum,  212-13 
Collectors,  Psychology  of,  205-6 


Colvin  Family,  13,  14-15  & n. 

James,  in  the  Indian  Mutiny,  14-15 
John  Russell,  and  the  Indian 
Mutiny,  14-15  & n. 

Sir  Auckland,  15 n. 

Sir  Sidney,  adventure  of,  at  Corfu, 
281 

Boyhood,  13  sqq. 

Cambridge  Days  and  Cambridge 
Posts,  8,  10-12,  19,  43,  60, 
103,  172,  221-2 

Critique  by,  of  Rossetti’s  poems, 
60,  extracts  from,  66,  blsqq. 
Dissent  by,  from  Henderson’s 
estimate  of  The  Bride  of 
Lammermoor , 197  n. 
Education 
Early,  12,  18 
Later,  10,  18-19,  48 
Early  Literary  joys,  16  sqq. 
Early  travels,  19,  41 
Journalist  days,  8,  48 
Letters  to  and  from  R.  L.  S. 
and  his  wife,  on  settling 
in  Samoa,  146  sqq. 

Life,  home,  work,  and  con- 
temporaries of,  at  the  Bri- 
tish Museum,  8,  141,  143, 
172-3,  201  sqq.,  207 
Life  of  Keats,  by,  9 
Love  of,  for  Nature,  19  sqq. 
Parents  of,  13  sqq. 

Review  by,  of  Hugo’s  L'Annee 
Terrible,  254 ; Burty  on, 
254-5  & n. ; Hugo  on,  255  n. ; 
Extracts  from,  256  sqq. 
Rossetti’s  “ Limerick  ” on,  74 
Rossetti,  Critical  praise  of  by, 
60,  66,  72 

Sporting  tastes  of,  17-18,  23-4 
Travels  of,  in  Greece,  217  *, 
Olympus,  219 ; Athens, 
217,  224  sqq. 

Views  of,  on  Juventus  Mundi , 
193 

Visit  of,  to  Finistere  (1876), 
289  sqq. 

Work  of,  as  Art  Critic,  8,  48, 
60,  66  sqq.,  253 

Colvin,  Lady,  Dedicatory  Letter  to, 
7 sqq. 

Commune,  the,  in  Paris,  1871,  254 


318 


INDEX 


Concentration,  Meredith’s  phrase  on, 
and  Colvin’s  Lecture  on, 
182  & n. 

“ Conciliation  or  Coercion,”  199 
Conrad,  Joseph,  152 

Affinities  of,  with  R.  L.  S.,  151-2 
on  In  the  South  Seas,  by  R.  L.  S., 
149 

Coquelin,  Jean  (cadet),  279 
Corfu,  adventure  at,  281 
Cornouailles,  289 

Cosmopolitan  views  of  Meredith,  180 
Cowper,  W.,  poem  by,  Tirocinium , 13 
Crane,  Walter,  57 

Crabbe,  George,  Place  of,  in  Litera- 
ture, 26  sqq. 

Poems  of,  and  feeling  of,  for  his 
district,  25  sqq. 

Style  and  Matter  of,  26  sqq. 
Creeting  Mill,  the  Austins  of,  159 
Cunningham,  Alison,  137 

Dahut,  Princess,  legend  of,  312-13 
Darwin,  Charles,  156 
Datura  stramonium  at  Penmarc’h, 
302 

Davos,  in  R.  L.  S.’s  day,  131-3 
Deben  River  and  its  tributaries,  22 
Barton’s  verses  on,  19-20,  32-3 
de  Freycinet,  — , 278 
de  Goncourts,  the,  268 
Deirdre  and  Cuchulain,  legend  of,  54 
Demeter,  Statue  of,  from  Cnidos,  211 
de  Vere,  Aubrey,  friends  and  poems 
of,  54-5  & n.y  56 

Devil,  the,  and  Dahut,  legend  of, 
312-13 

Dew-Smith,  A.  G.,  and  R.  L.  S.,  126-7 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  (Meredith), 
166,  173 

Dick  Naseby,  in  The  Story  of  a Lie 
(R.  L.  S.),  prototype  of,  116 
Dickens,  Charles,  Literary  style  of, 
124 

Novels  of,  Burne-Jones’s  joy  in, 
56,  58 

Dilke,  Sir  Charles,  on  Charles  Brown, 
249 n. 

Dilettanti  Society,  the,  216 
Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  (Stevenson), 
141 


Dol,  monolith  of,  309 
Donne,  John,  lines  by,  82 
Douarnenez,  289 

Beauty  of  Surroundings,  306 
sqq. 

Colour  in,  308 
Sardine  Trade  at,  303  sqq. 

Bay,  303 

Doyle,  Richard,  38 
Drouet,  Mme.,  and  Hugo,  268,  269 
Duff  Gordon,  Lucie,  Lady  ( nee 
Austin),  159 

Early  Italian  Poets  (Rossetti), 
87 

East  Suffolk  Poets,  see  Crabbe,  Fitz- 
Gerald, and  Giles  Fletcher 
Ebb-Tide , The  (Stevenson),  149 ; 
character  in,  127 

Echetlos  (Browning),  Browning’s 
reading  of,  84 

Edinburgh  society  and  R.  L.  S.,  105 
Edinburgh  Review,  Fleeming  Jenkin’s 
articles  in,  156 

Egoist,  The  (Meredith),  166,  172,  173 
Elgin,  Earl  of,  204,  216 
Elgin  Marbles,  The,  203-4,  220,  232 
Endymion  (Keats),  164 
Enfants,  Les  (V.  Hugo),  114 
England,  Meredith’s  attitude  to,  177- 
80 

English  Accentual  Stress,  183 

Painting,  State  of,  circa  1886-7, 
49-50 

Esterel  Coast,  beauties  of,  288 
Euphranor,  by  Edward  FitzGerald,  11 

Faery  Queene,  The,  Colvin’s 
delight  in,  17-18 
Felixstowe,  25 

Fenton,  attempt  of,  on  Trelawny, 
243,  247 

Feuillantines,  Convent  of,  Lines  on, 
by  Hugo,  cited,  265-6 
Fifine  at  the  Fair  (Browning),  79 
Finiguerra,  Maso,  45 
Finistere,  visit  to  (1876),  described, 
289  sqq. 

FitzGerald,  Edward,  30 
Characteristics  of,  38  sqq. 
and  his  Euphranor , 11 


INDEX 


319 


Friends  and  friendships  of,  33,  34 
Poems  of,  33  sqq. 

John  Purcell,  father  of  Edward 
and  John,  34 

John  Purcell,  brother  of  Edward, 
34,  35-6 

Fitzwilliam  Museum,  Colvin’s  Direc- 
torship of,  8,  11,  221-2 

Gallery  at,  of  Casts  from  the 
Antique,  221-2  ; Newton’s 
speech  at  opening  of,  222-3 
Fleshly  School,  The,  of  Poetry  (Bu- 
chanan), Rossetti’s  anger 
at,  72,  75 

Fletcher,  Giles,  24-5 
Florence,  233 

Flying  Victory,  The,  of  Paionios,  219 
Fontainebleau,  and  Fate  for  R.  L.  S., 
128 

Fontenelle,  Guy  Eder  de,  and  the 
sack  of  Penmarc’h,  300,  303 
Footnote , A,  to  History  (Stevenson), 
149 

Foster,  Birket,  48 

France,  affairs  in,  in  Gambetta’s 
day,  274-5  ; relations  with 
Germany  after  1870,  Gam- 
betta’s influence  on,  277-8, 
280  sqq. 

the  Land’s  End  of,  a visit  to,  286 
sqq. 

War-devastated,  46 
Francesca  da  Rimini  (Leigh  Hunt), 
135 

Franco-Prussian  War  of  1870-1,  253 
Franks,  A.  Wollaston,  208-9 
Freedom  of  the  Press  in  France, 
struggle  over,  Gambetta’s 
share  in,  275 

French  excavations  at  Olympia,  217 
Froude,  John  Antony,  and  Carlyle, 
81 

Fuller,  Thomas  on  Suffolk  air,  25 
Funeral  Monuments  in  Athens,  236-7 
Fynn,  the  brook,  22 

Gainsborough,  Thomas,  and  Land- 
guard  Fort,  32 
Gaisford,  Captain,  242 

Lady  Alice,  242 

Thomas,  Dean  of  Christ  Church, 
242 


Gambetta,  L6on,  254,  286 

Aspects  and  characteristics  of, 
275  sqq. 

Oratorical  powers,  inborn  leader- 
ship, 276-7 

Attitude  of,  to  French  relations  with 
Germany,  change  in,  277-8, 
280,  281,  282 
Career  of,  274-5 
Conversational  topics,  278-9 
Death  of,  285 

Letters  from,  274,  282  & n. 

Love  Story  of,  285 
Memories  of,  274  sqq. 
as  Statesman,  274-5,  277-8,  280 
sqq. 

Garnett,  Dr.  Richard,  207-8 

George  Eliot,  at  the  Priory,  90, 
sqq. 

Appearance  and  characteristics  of, 
90-1,  92 

German  Archaeologists,  Excavations 
by,  216  sqq. 

Germany 

Gambetta’s  attitude  to,  277-8,  280, 
281,  282 

Gambetta’s  tour  in  (1877),  283  & n. 
and  the  War,  Meredith’s  foresight 
on,  179 

Gifford,  W.,  praise  by,  of  the  Storm 
lines  in  Crabbe’s  Borough , 
29 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  Characteristics  of, 
189  sqq. 

Dominance  of,  over  the  English 
mind,  189,  190,  191 
Financial  attitude  of,  195 
Humour  of,  198-9 
Juventus  Mundi  by,  193 
Last  meeting  with,  199-200 
Memories  of,  189  sqq. 

Oratory  of,  189  sqq. 

Topics  preferred  by,  192 
Views  of,  on  Homer,  192  sqq . 
on  Walter  Scott,  197 

Goethe,  W.  A.,  Hugo’s  denunciation 
of,  273 

Gordon,  James,  167 

Mrs.  James  (Lady  Butcher),  book 
by,  on  Meredith,  167 & n. 

Gosse,  Edmund,  and  R.  L.  S.,  120, 
136 


320 


INDEX 


Gower  Woodseer  in  The  Amazing 
Marriage,  and  R.  L.  S.,  168 
Gradlon,  King,  legend  of,  311  & n., 

sqq. 

Graham,  W.,  and  Burne-Jones,  49,  55 
Great  North  Road , The  (Stevenson), 
135,  169 

Greece,  Colvin’s  Travels  in,  217 ; 

Olympus,  219 ; Athens, 
217,  224  sqq. 

and  Turkey,  affairs  of  (in  1881), 
Trelawny  on,  245  sqq. 

Greek  Landscape,  affinity  of,  with 
! Greek  Art,  232 

Greek  War  of  Liberation,  Trelawny’s 
share  in,  and  book  on,  241, 
243,  246,  247,  249 
Greenwood,  Frederick,  48 
Guernsey,  Hugo’s  residence  in,  254, 
255  & n .,  267 

Halifax,  Viscount,  198 
Hamerton,  Philip  Gilbert,  124 
Hampstead  Hill,  R.  L.  S.’s  super- 
latives on,  121-2 

Ponds,  lines  by  Keats,  probably 
suggested  by,  165 
Hatherley,  Lord,  35 
Hawes  Inn,  Queensferry,  R.  L.  S.’s 
use  of,  168,  169 

Hebrides,  the,  and  R.  L.  S.,  138-9 
Henley,  W.  E.,  as  critic,  173 

Joint  work  of,  with  R.  L.  S., 
142 

Sonnet  by,  on  R.  L.  S.,  101-2 
Heredia,  Jose-Maria  de,  286 
Herostratus,  R.  L.  S.’s  projected 
spectacle-play  on,  112-13 
History  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy 
(Symonds),  132 
Hoar  Cross,  198,  199 
Homeric  Poems,  Gladstone’s  interest 
in  and  theory  on,  192-4 
Houghton,  Lord  (Monckton  Milnes), 
222 

Howard,  George  (later  9th  Earl  of 
Carlisle),  his  wife,  tastes, 
and  guests,  77-8,  191 
Howell,  Charles  Augustus,  and  Ros- 
setti, 64 

Rossetti’s  “ Limerick  ” on,  75 


Hudibras,  quoted  by  Browning,  87, 
88 

Hughes,  Arthur,  48 
Hugo,  Mme.  Victor,  268 

Victor,  Characteristics  of,  268  sqq. 

Books  and  writings  of,  on  Chil- 
dren, 114,  263-4. 

Letter  from,  255n. 

Lines  by,  on  dead  Prussians 
floating  in  the  Seine,  cited, 
262-3 

on  Les  Feuillantines , cited, 
265-6 

Manner,  voice  and  conversation 
of,  268  sqq. 

Memories  of,  253  sqq. 

Poems  and  Novels  of  ( see  also 
Annee  Terrible,  V),  254 
sqq.,  270,  272 
Hunt,  Leigh,  on  Sport,  23 

W.  Holman,  and  the  Prse- 
Raphaelites,  61 

Hyeres,  R.  L.  S.  at,  verses  on  his 
abode  there,  135-6 
Hymettus,  230,  238 

Idylls  of  The  King  (Tennyson), 
66 

Iliad,  Meredith’s  Translations  from, 
183,  184 

and  Odyssey,  Gladstone’s  theory 
on,  193-4 

Imaginary  Conversations  (Landor), 
on  an  adventure  of  Tre- 
lawny, 249  & n.,  250 
Imagination  and  the  Artist,  50  sqq. 
In  a Drear-nighted  December  (Keats), 
written  on  Box  Hill,  164 
In  Memoriam  (Tennyson),  66 
In  the  South  Seas  (Stevenson),  two 
judgments  on,  149 

Inchbold,  Rossetti’s  “ Limerick” on, 
73 

India,  the  Colvin  family  connection 
with,  14-15  & n. 

Indian  Mutiny,  the,  14-15 
Inland  Voyage,  The  (Stevenson),  110, 
128,  169 

Meredith’s  letter  on,  169-70 
Ireland,  visits  to,  19,  41 
Irving,  Sir  Henry,  156 


INDEX 


321 


Is,  the  submerged  city  of,  312-13 

Italian  poems,  Rossetti’s  translations 
of,  60 

James,  Henry,  and  R.  L.  S.,  142 ; 
death  of,  151 

Japanese  Art,  introducers  of,  to 
Parisian  amateurs,  253 

Jebb,  Professor,  oratory  of,  12,  222 

Jenkin,  Mrs.  Fleeming  (nee  Austin), 
154 

Death  of,  153 

Dramatic  powers  of,  160-1 

Family  and  Parents  of,  154, 
159-60 

R.  L.  S.’s  affection  for,  161 
Professor  Fleeming,  Characteris- 
tics of,  156-9 

Life- Story  and  Career  of,  153 
sqq. 

Writings  of,  156  & n. 

and  R.  L.  S.,  119,  152 

Jenny  (Rossetti),  65  ; an  apprecia- 
tion of,  69-71  ; lines  from, 
70-1 

“Jerry  Abershaw,”  tale  planned  by 
R.  L.  S.,  169 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  and  Boswell 
174 

Lines  by,  from  The  Vanity  of 
Human  Wishes , 185  & n. 

Johnston,  Sir  H.  H.,  147 

Juvenal,  Meredith’s  reference  to, 
183,  185  db  n.,  186 

Juventus  Mundi  (Gladstone),  Col- 
vin’s criticism  on,  193 


Kaye,  J.  W.,  on  J.  R.  Colvin  in  the 
Mutiny,  15  n. 

Keats,  John,  at  Burford  Bridge  Inn, 
164 

Colvin’s  “ Life  of,”  9 
Poems  of,  localities  associated  with, 
164-5 

Trelawny’s  mottoes  from,  218 
and  Severn,  215,  251 
Kidnapped  (Stevenson),  141-2 
King , The,  of  the  Golden  River  (Rus- 
kin),  38 

Kingussie,  R.  L.  S.  at,  134-5 


Kipling,  Rudyard,  151 
Kouyunjik,  excavations  at,  210 

Lamb,  Charles,  and  Bernard  Barton, 
30,  31 

Landes  of  Brittany,  ruins  on,  309 
Landor,  Walter  Savage,  Colvin’s 
volume  on,  Browning’s  help 
in,  letter  on,  88-9 
and  Trelawny,  248,  249  & n.,  250 
Landguard  Fort,  as  subject  both  to 
Crabbe  and  Gainsborough, 
32 

Lang,  Andrew,  death  of,  151  ; and 
R.  L.  S.,  117-19 

Lark,  the  brook,  Barton’s  verses  on, 
19-20,  31 

Layard,  Sir  A.,  excavations  by,  210 
League,  the,  and  Penmarc’h,  300 
Leconte  de  Lisle,  255 
Legros,  Alphonse,  77 
Leighton,  Sir  Frederick,  P.R.A.,  57, 
222 

Leon,  Mile.  Leonie,  and  Gambetta, 
285 

Leonnais,  the,  291 

Letters  of  Edward  John  Trelawny 
(Buxton  Forman,  ed.),  on 
Tersitza  and  Trelawny, 
249n. 

Levant,  the,  Newton’s  labours  in, 
fruits  of,  210  sqq. 

Lewes,  G.  H.,  appearance  of,  92 
and  George  Eliot  at  The  Priory, 
90  sqq. 

Leyland,  Mr.,  and  Burne-Jones,  49 
Life,  its  value  for  itself,  Fleeming 
Jenkin  on,  158-9 
Life  of  Keats,  by  Colvin,  9 
“ Limericks,”  by  Rossetti,  72  sqq. 
Little  Holland  House,  its  inhabitants 
and  habitues,  90,  93  sqq. 
Little  While,  A (Rossetti),  Stanzas 
from,  65 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick,  as  poet, 
76 

Lockroy,  Edouard,  269 
London,  immensity  of,  233 
London  Police,  the,  and  R.  L.  S.,  109 
Lough  Neagh,  and  the  submerged 
city  myth,  311 


322 


INDEX 


Lowell,  J.  R.,  143  ; and  R.  L.  S.,  222 
Lycabettus,  mount,  227 
Quarrying  from,  234 
View  from,  238-9 

Macaulay,  Lord,  literary  style  of, 
124 

MacMahon,  Marshal,  President  of 
the  French,  254  ; and  the 
reactionary  coup  in  May, 
1877,  282  & 284 

Maison,  General,  217 
Malcolm,  John,  of  Poltalloch,  Collec- 
tions of,  206,  207 

Mark,  King,  and  the  Midas  story,  314 
Marryat,  Mayne  Reid,  and  Feni- 
more  Cooper,  Colvin’s  early 
delight  in,  18 

Marseilles,  associations  with,  of 
R.  L.  S.,  135,  139-40 
Martlesham  Red  Lion,  22 
Mason,  George,  49 
Maud  (Tennyson),  66 
Mausoleum  of  Halicarnassus,  the, 
211 

Mediterranean  Islands,  a talk  on, 
with  R.  L.  S.,  138  n. 
Mene-Hom,  legend  of,  314 
Melbury  Road,  Watts’s  later  home 
in,  97 

Meredith,  George,  Appreciation  of, 
slow  but  emphatic,  173,  179 
at  Box  Hill  ; Memories  of,  162  sqq. 
Characteristics  of,  165,  167,  186 
Conversation  of,  167,  170-1,  174-5, 
186,  187 

Dachshunds  of,  171,  187 
Death  and  Burial  of,  Barrie  on, 
187-8 

Friends  and  friendships  of,  167, 
171,  172,  173,  188 
Infirmities  of,  in  age,  173,  174,  186 
Letter  from,  to  Colvin,  183 

to  R.  L.  S.  on  The  Inland  Voyage , 
169-70 

Literary  style  of,  175,  178,  181 
Novels  and  Poems  written  by,  on 
Box  Hill,  166 

Personal  appearance  of,  167,  173 
Poems  of,  166,  180-2 
Obscurities  in,  181 
Portrait  of,  by  Watts,  172 


Reading  aloud  of,  181 
and  R.  L.  S.,  167,  169-70,  188 
as  a walker,  165,  168,  172,  173 
Metres,  Classical,  Meredith’s  Experi- 
ments in,  183,  illustrations 
of,  184 

Meurice,  Paul,  269 

Midas,  King,  Story  of,  as  told  of 
King  Mark,  314 
Middlemarch  (George  Eliot),  92 
Millet,  J.  F.,  52 

Millais,  Sir  J.  E.,  Paintings  by,  45  ; 

Trelawny’s  likeness  in,  243-4 
and  the  Prae-Raphaelites,  61 
Milton,  Areopagitica  of,  referred  to 
by  Gambetta,  275 
Lines  from,  applicable  to  Glad- 
stone in  Debate,  190 
R.  L.  S.’s  delight  in,  108-9 
Mitchell,  William,  Collections  of, 
206,  207 

Modern  Painters , (Ruskin),  18,  41 
Monckton,  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton), 
54 

“ Monsieur  Berecchino  ” (R.  L.  S.), 
115 

Montaigne,  rue,  Gambetta’s  quarters 
in,  274,  278 

Moor,  Rev.  Edward,  of  Great  Beal- 
ings,  35 

Morris,  Mrs.  William,  63 

William,  and  Burne-Jones,  48, 
53,  59 

on  Payment  for  Disagreeable 
kinds  of  Work,  195 
and  Rossetti,  61 
Socialism  of,  59 
Munro,  H.  A.  J.,  156 
Museum  Officials,  Occupations  and 
Privileges  of,  202-4 

Nankin  China,  Rossetti’s  passion  for, 
62 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  and  Goethe,  273 
Napoleon  the  Little,  270 
National  Service,  Meredith’s  views 
on,  178-80 

National  Trust,  the,  and  Box  Hill, 
162 

Native  Portraiture,  in  In  the  South 
Seas,  by  R.  L.  S.,  149 
Nature,  Colvin’s  Love  of,  19  sqq. 


INDEX 


323 


Naworth,  the  Howards  at,  and  their 
company,  77-8,  191,  192 
Nelitchka,  the,  of  R.  L.  S.’s  letters, 
114,  115,  124 

Nelson,  Admiral  Lord  and  Lady 
Hamilton  at  Box  Hill,  164 
New  Arabian  Nights  (Stevenson),  167 
New  Poems  (Stevenson),  140  n. 
Newfoundland  Codfisheries  and  Pen- 
marc’h,  300 

Newman,  Cardinal  J.  H.,  54 
Newton,  Mrs.  Charles  (nee  Severn), 
tragedy  of,  215 

Newton,  Sir  Charles,  appearance  of, 
213-14 

Book  by,  on  his  travels,  cited,  218 
Characteristics  of,  210  sqq. 
Memories  of,  209  sqq. 

Speech  by,  on  opening  of  Gallery 
of  Casts  in  Fitzwilliam 
Museum,  222-3 
and  Trelawny,  240,  242 
Visit  of,  to  Olympia,  216  sqq. 
Niagara,  Falls  of.  Rapids  below, 
Trelawny’ s Swim  across, 
241 

Night  Thoughts  (Young),  195-6 
Nimrud,  Excavations  at,  210 
North  British  Review , Jenkin’s  arti- 
cles in,  156 

“North-West  Passage,”  The,  Mil- 
lais’s likeness  of  Trelawny 
in,  243-4 

Norwich,  the  Barrons  of,  160  ; 

the  Taylors  of,  159 
Nouvelle  Revue,  La,  and  Mme. 
Adam,  280 

Odysseus,  and  Trelawny,  241,  249 
Treasures  of,  246-7 
Olympia,  German  excavations  at, 
216  sqq. 

Omar  Khayyam,  the  Rubaiyat  of, 
FitzGerald’s  version  of,  36- 

7 

Opalstein,  in  Talk  and  Talkers  pro- 
totype of,  133 

Ordered  South  (Stevenson),  121 
Orr,  Mrs.  Sutherland,  on  Browning’s 
manner,  79 
Orwell,  River,  32 


Pall  Mall  Gazette , Colvin’s  Art 
criticisms  in,  48 

Paris,  V.  Hugo  in,  254,  267-8  sqq.  ; 

during  the  Siege,  263-9 
Parnell,  Charles  Stewart,  Gladstone’s 
famous  phrases  on,  199 
Parthenon, the(see  also  Elgin  Marbles), 
first  glimpse  of,  227 
Seen  from  Lycabettus,  238 
Pattle,  James,  distinguished  daugh- 
ters of,  93-4 

Penmarc’h,  past  and  present,  298- 
302  ; the  elements  in  war- 
fare at,  300-1 
Pentelicus,  230 
Marble  of,  234 

Playford,  Notable  dwellers  at,  35 

Playford  mere,  22 

Phaeton  (Meredith),  lines  from,  184 

Phalerum,  Bay  of,  238 

Piraeus,  the,  228 

Plomarc’h,  and  King  Mark,  314 

Poissoniere,  Boulevard,  home  of  M. 

and  Mme.  Edmond  Adam, 
279 

Political  Economy,  Ruskin’s  teach- 
ings on,  45-6 
Portfolio,  The,  124 

Poul-Dahont  (Poul-David),  legend 
of,  313 

Prse-Raphaelite  Brotherhood,  the, 
36,  44-5,  61 
Praeterita  (Ruskin),  39 
Prinsep,  Thoby,  and  his  wife,  90, 
93-4 ; relations  of,  with 
Watts,  ib. 

Priory,  The,  and  its  habitues,  90 
sqq. 

Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau  (Brown- 
ing), 79 

Prince  Otto  (Stevenson),  137 
Private  Collectors  and  Museums,  205 
Procopius,  cited  on  the  Baie  des 
Trepasses,  297-8 
Procter,  Mrs.,  and  Browning,  89 
Public  Buildings,  Watts’s  mural 
decorations  of,  95-6 
Purcell  family,  the,  34 

Quimper,  289,  290 
Legend  of,  312 


324 


INDEX 


Radowitz,  Graf  von,  adventure 
with,  281-2  ; on  Gambetta’s 
attitude  to  Germany,  282 
Raj  on,  91 
Ranc,  278 

Raz,  Bee  du,  294,  295 

Pointe  du,  290,  296,  298,  303 
Visit  to,  291  sqq. 

Records  of  Shelley,  Byron,  <£c . (Tre- 
lawny),  242,  245-6,  248 
Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country 
(Browning),  79-80 
Red  Lion,  the,  of  Martlesham,  22 
Rendel,  Lord  and  Lady,  199 
“ Revanche,  La,”  Mme.  Adam’s 
obsession  with,  280  : Gam- 
betta’s policy  on,  277-8,  280 
Richard  Feverel  (Meredith),  aphor- 
isms in,  174 

Ring,  The,  and  The  Book  (Browning), 
179 

Browning’s  reading  of,  84 
Riviera,  visited  by 
Colvin,  19 
R.  L.  S.,  106,  112 
Rob  Roy  (Scott),  16 
Robinet,  115-16 

Roman  ruins  and  roads  in  Brittany, 
309,  311 

Rosabelle,  Scott’s  Ballad  of,  Ruskin’s 
recitation  of,  43-4 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  Appearance, 
house,  manners  and  habits 
of,  61-2 

and  Burne-Jones,  48 
Colvin’s  support  of,  60,  66,  72 
Suggestions  to,  on  the  ex- 
humed poems,  64 
“ Limericks”  by,  72  sqq. 
Memories  of,  60  sqq. 

Paintings  by,  44,  60,  62,  63 
Favourite  sitters  of,  63 
Poetry  of,  60,  62,  63,  87 
Readings  by,  of  his  own  poems, 
64  sqq. 

and  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  36-7 
and  Symbolism  in  Art,  51 
Mrs.  Dante  Gabriel,  death  of,  61  ; 
poems  buried  with,  ex- 
humed and  published,  63-5 
sqq. 


Rossetti,  William  Michael,  74-5 
Rottingdean,  Burne-Jones  at,  55,  56 
Rubaiyat,  The,  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
FitzGerald’s  version  of,  36—7; 
stanzas  from,  36 

Ruskin,  John,  Appearance  of,  40 
Art  Criticism  of,  16,  41 
Books  by,  Colvin’s  delight  in,  18 
Characteristics  and  teachings  of, 
40  sqq. 

Colvin’s  relations  with,  40  sqq., 
48 

Literary  style  of,  40,  41,  124 
Memories  of,  38  sqq. 

Political  Writings  of,  41,  44 ; 
effects  of,  47 
Mrs.  (mother  of  John),  38 

St.  Corentin,  312,  313 
St.  Gaudens,  Bronze  Relief  by,  of 
R.  L.  S.,  142 
St.  Guennole,  312,  313 
St.  Ronan,  313 

Salamis,  Island  of,  227,  230,  238,  239 
Salting,  George,  collections  of,  206-7 
Salvini  as  ‘ ‘ King  Lear,’  ’ 84 
Samoa,  Life  and  death  in,  of  R.  L.  S., 
145  sqq. 

Samson  Agonistes  (Milton),  lines 
from,  declaimed  by  R.  L.  S., 
108-9 

Sardine  Trade,  at  Douarnenez,  303 
sqq. 

Sargent,  J.  S.,  portrait  by,  of  R.  L.  S'., 
142 

Savile  Club,  the,  and  R L.  S.,  119-21 
Scottish  West  Coast,  grandeur  of,  288 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  works  of,  56  ; 

artistry  of,  16-17,  26 ; 

Colvin’s  early  delight  in, 
16-18  ; the  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor  by,  197  & n. 

Scott,  William  Bell,  Rossetti’s  “ Lim- 
ericks ” on,  73,  74;  his  in- 
accuracies, 74 

Scottish  and  English  Universities, 
contrasts  between,  126 
Sea-Cook,  The  (Stevenson),  134 
Sea-description,  an  effective,  30 
Sea-poppies  at  Penmarc’h,  302 
Seins,  Chauss6e  des,  294,  295 
lie  des,  294,  296 


INDEX 


325 


Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  (Ruskin), 
41 

Severn,  Ann  Mary  (Mrs.  Charles 
Newton),  215 

Joseph,  friend  of  Keats,  215, 
232  ; burial-place  of,  251 
Shadows,  transparency  of,  in  Athens, 
229-30 

Shakespeare,  Colvin’s  early  joy  in,  18 
Shelley,  Mrs.  (Mary  Godwin),  241 
Percy  Bysshe,  10 
Death  of,  240-1,  247 
Trelawny  on,  247-8 
Heart  of,  rescued  by  Trelawny, 
240,  247,  251 

Trelawny’s  friendship  with,  240- 
1,  242,  251 
Shilleto,  Richard,  12 
Simon,  Jules,  and  the  coup  of  May, 
1877,  284 

Sir  Eustace  Grey  (Crabbe),  27 
Sister  Helen  (Rossetti),  65 
Sitwell,  Mrs.  (later  Lady  Colvin),  and 
R.  L.  S.,  7,  103,  104,  122-3 
Skye,  Isle  of,  visits  to,  55 
Slade  Professorship  of  Colvin,  8,  11, 
43,  103 

Smart,  Christopher,  stanzas  by,  83 
Somers,  Virginia,  Countess  (nee 
Pattle),  93 

Sompting,  Trelawny’s  home  at,  242 
Song  of  David  (Smart),  stanzas  from, 
83 

Songs  of  Experience  (Blake),  250 ; 
Stanzas  from,  251 

Songs  of  Travel  (Stevenson),  148  & n. 
Sons t The,  of  Usnach  (de  Vere),  54; 

lines  from,  55n.  ; letter  on, 
from  Burne-Jones,  55 
Southey,  Robert,  250 
Souvenirs  (Mme.  Adam),  283n. 
Spartali,  Miss  Mary,  63 
Spenser’s  Faery  Queene , Colvin’s 
delight  in,  17-18 
Spuller,  278 

Sport,  Colvin’s  early  love  of,  17-18, 
23-4 

Stephen,  Mrs.  Leslie 

the  first  172 ; the  second,  ib. 
Stephen,  Sir  Leslie,  170,  171-2 ; 

Character  based  on,  by 
Meredith,  172 


Stevenson,  Mrs.  R.  L.,  character  of, 
129,  130  ; letter  from,  147 
Stevenson,  Thomas,  105,  129 

Robert  (Bob),  128,  168 ; on 

R.  L.  S.,  150 

Robert  Louis,  attire  of,  107  sqq. 
Books  by,  Burne-Jones’s  love 
for,  and  letters  on,  56  sqq. 
and  Burne-Jones,  56-57 
in  California,  128-9,  130 
Characteristics  of,  102  sqq.,  167 
Collaboration  of,  with  Henley, 

142 

Colvin’s  first  meeting  with,  7, 
102-4 

Colvin’s  letters  preserved  by, 
150 

as  Critic,  and  Meredith’s  writ- 
ings, 173 
Death  of,  148 

Friends  and  Friendships  of,  7, 
102,  103  sqq.,  107,  113  sqq., 
119,  120,  122-3,  126,  132-3, 
136,  142,  143,  152  sqq.,  167, 
188 

Health  of,  100,  101,  105,  106-7, 
130  sqq. 

Inspiring  talk  of,  105 
Literary  style  of,  124 
Marriage  of,  128-9 
Memories  of,  98  sqq. 

One  moment  of  despondency, 

143 

Personal  appearance  of,  99  sqq. 
107 

Henley  on,  102 

and  the  Police  at  home  and 
abroad,  109  sqq. 

Portrait  and  Relief  of,  142 
Roamings  of,  in  search  of 
health,  131  sqq.,  further 
wanderings,  144-5,  life  in 
Samoa,  146,  letters  thence, 
147-8,  death,  148 
and  the  Savile  Club,  119-21 
Spell  of,  over  Boys,  104,124-5 
Superlatives  of,  121-3 
Two  aspects  of,  98-9 
Visits  of,  to  Colvin’s  British 
Museum  home,  141,  143 
Writings  of 

Dramatic  (with  Henley),  142 


326 


INDEX 


Stevenson  Robert  Louis  ( con- 
tinued) — 

Writings  of 

Prose,  98-9,  115,  121,  127-8, 
133,  134,  135,  137,  141-2, 
149  sqq.,  167,  168,  169 

Verse,  136,  137,  140  & n., 

164  n. 

When  in  Samoa,  Colvin’s  criti- 
cisms, 149-50 

Written  conversations  with,  in  ill- 
ness, 143-4 

Stone-breaker,  the,  and  Ruskin,  44, 

Story,  William  Wetmore,  78 

Stones  oj  Venice  (Ruskin),  18,  41 

Storm  and  Calm  in  Crabbe’s 
Borough , 29 

Story , The , of  a Lie  (Stevenson), 
autobiography  in,  116 

Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  Lord,  and 
archaeology,  210 

Submerged  City,  Celtic  myth  of, 
34  sqq. 

Suffolk,  Air  of,  Fuller  on,  25 

Literary  Interests  and  Associa- 
tions, of,  16 

Notable  folk  of,  24,  25  sqq.,  30  sqq., 
34,  35-7,  159-60. 

Scenery  of,  16,  19  sqq. 

Worthies,  feelings  of  for  their 
country,  24  sqq. 

Suicide  Club  Stories  by  R.  L.  S.,  166, 
168 

Sunday  Afternoons  at  The  Priory, 
and  at  Little  Holland  House, 
90  sqq. 

Sunday  Tramps,  the,  171,  172  <Sc  n. 

Swinburne,  Algernon,  Hugo  on,  270  ; 

and  Rossetti’s  poems,  66,72 

Symonds,  John  Addington,  and 
R.  L.  S.,  132-3 


Talk  and  Talkers  (Stevenson), 
127-8  ; a character  in,  133 
Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  54 
Taylors,  the,  of  Norwich,  159 
Telpherage  system  of  Fleeming  Jen- 
kin,  155 

Tembinok,  King  of  Apemama,  149 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  1st  Lord,  54 
Arthurian  poems  of,  66 


Tersitza,  Zella,  and  Trelawny, 
249  cfc  n.y  250 

Teuton  and  Gaul,  agelong  strife  of, 
256 

Thomson,  Sir  William  (Lord  Kelvin), 
154 

Thompson,  W.  A.,  Master  of  Trinity, 
12 

Three  Colours,  The,  of  Prce-Raphaelit - 
ism  (Ruskin),  44-5 

Tinted  Statues,  reason  for,  229 

Tirocinium  (Cowper),  13 

To  S.  C.  (Stevenson),  146  <Sc  n. 

Tourists,  162  ; Meredith’s  two  voices 
on,  176-7 

Turner  Water-colours  owned  by 
Ruskin,  39 

Tragedy,  Gladstone  on,  196-8 

Transvaal  War  (1881),  Trelawny  on, 
245 

Travels  and  Discoveries  (Newton), 
extract  from,  218 

Travels  with  a Donkey  in  the  Cevennes 
(Stevenson),  128 

Treasure,  The,  of  Franchard  (Steven- 
son), 134 

Treasure  Island  (Stevenson),  134,  141 

Trees  and  flowers  near  Athens, 
232 

Trelawny,  Edward  John,  10  ; adven- 
tures of,  books  by,  and 
later  days  of,  240-2,  247 ; 
a meeting  with,  240,  242  sqq : 
Burial-place,  251 

Conversation  and  voice  of,  244  sqq. 
Millais’s  likeness  of,  243-4 
Shelley’s  heart  rescued  by,  240, 
247,  251 

Trevelyan,  G.  M.,  book  by,  on  Mere- 
dith’s Poetry  and  Philo- 
sophy, 182 

Trepasses,  Baie  des,  296  sqq. 

Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  and  lie  Tris- 
tan, 314 

Tristan,  lie,  Arthurian  associations 
of,  314 ; and  Fontenelle, 
303 

Trochu,  General,  Hugo  on,  271 

Universal  Republic,  toast  to  ; Gam- 
betta’s  wrath,  277 

Ushant,  Islands  of,  293 


INDEX 


327 


Vacquerie,  Auguste,  269 

Van,  Point©  de,  293,  296 

Vanity  oj  Human  Wishes  (Johnson’s 
translation  of  J uvenal’s 
tenth  satire),  185  & n. 

Vaughan,  Henry,  and  the  British 
Museum,  206 

Vernon  Whitford,  in  The  Egoist , 
model  for,  172 

Verrall,  Professor,  Essay  by.  On  the 
Prose  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
17  n. 

Versailles,  Gambetta’s  speeches  at, 
276-7 

Vienna,  233 

Waddington,  M.,  French  Ambassa- 
dor, 222 

Wales,  H.R.H.  the  Prince  of  (King 
Edward  VII),  222 

Walker,  Frederick,  49 

Waterlow,  Sydney,  book  by,  on 
Cambridge,  12 

Watts,  George  Frederick,  at  Little 
Holland  House,  90,  93  sqq. 

Appearance  and  Characteristics 
of,  95  sqq . 

Personality  of,  94  sqq. 

Paintings  of,  95-6 
Portraits,  58,  96,  172 
Mrs.  G.  F.,  97 

Waverley  Novels,  the,  16,  26,  197 

Weir  of  Hermiston  (Stevenson),  149 

Westminster  Review  (1871),  Colvin’s 
Essay  in,  on  D.  G.  Rossetti’s 
poems,  60,  66 ; extracts 
from,  67  sqq. 


Wharton,  the  Duke  of,  and  the 
poet  Young,  196 

Whewell,  William,  Master  of  Trinity, 
12 

Whitcomb©,  and  the  attempted 
assassination  of  Trelawny, 
247 

Wilding,  Miss,  63 

Wilford,  Admiral,  and  Penmarc’h, 
299-300 

Winckelmann,  and  German  ar- 
chaelogy,  216 
Wisie,  Ruskin’s  dog,  39 
Woggs,  R.  L.  S.’s  Skye-terrier,  137 
Women,  attitude  to,  of  Meredith,  178 
Women-characters  in  Meredith’s 
Novels,  178 

Wood,  Sir  William  Page  (Lord 
Hatherley),  35 

Woodbridge,  13,  14 ; literary  and 
notable  folk  of,  30,  34,  35 
Wordsworth,  W.,  54 
on  Sport,  23-4 
World  Reform,  46 
Wrecker , The  (Stevenson),  149 


Yarmouth,  Countess  of,  and  Young » 
196 

Young,  Edward,  Night  Thoughts  by, 
and  Gladstone,  195-6 


Zeus,  temple  of,  at  Olympia,  excava- 
tions at,  visit  to,  216  sqq. 
Zola,  Emile,  268  ; a French  criticism 
on,  278—9 


GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITUTE 


3 3125  01152  5785 


